


Hot Rain

by HainaOverSeas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Eventual Relationships, Fix-It, I don't like Mary okay, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Manipulation, Miscommunication, Naughty Gifts, Plot Twists, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Slow Burn, discussion of suicide, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HainaOverSeas/pseuds/HainaOverSeas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary's actions are not compatible with what she said, and John's words are not compatible with what he's going to do. Nothing short of a Holmes' brothers scheme. In the middle of everything, some feelings need to be sorted out.</p><p> </p><p>Chapter summary: Get to know who you married.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A.G.R.A

**Author's Note:**

> I had two chapters written before The Abominable Bride. I made some changes to adapt to the new 30 seconds of storyline. This is not smart meta, I'm not qualified for those.
> 
> I never wrote fanfic in English before. This is not betaed or brit-picked so any mistakes please point them out (and explain)! Also I've never been abroad so all geographic descriptions are googled. Probably you will find inaccuracies. Constructive reviews are very welcome.
> 
> This is a fix-it for His Last Vow. It begins after John finds out Mary shot Sherlock. Canon compliant and then post-HLV.

_You have questions._

_Tell me everything._

 

_Mary Elizabeth Morstan died before being born, in early October, 1997. She was buried in a catholic cemetery at the Milwaukee Metropolitan Area._

By the spring of 2008 Rachel Bailey had been living in Missouri for almost a year. She worked as a receptionist in a dentist clinic, and arrived home at 7pm everyday. But sundays were always dreadful, being mostly at home. It made worse that she didn't have a real job in several weeks now. Honestly, it was time to move again.

Going back to Europe already crossed her mind plentifully since she installed herself in that awful place.

It was late afternoon when she saw a notification in her email.

It did seem pretty boring. Some jerk pissed off the wrong person. But the payment was interesting. She browsed through an airline company website - it covered the fare. 

She spent the night planning everything. The next day she went to the clinic just to quit, and the rest of the day was dedicated to pack everything - not much, since she traveled a lot. Tuesday morning she rent a car first thing and left for Wisconsin. It was an eight-hours road trip, maybe a bit more.

At Milwaukee she had lunch and played tourist. Jake Chapman worked late on tuesdays. It was dark and the street deserted when she parked around two blocks from his house. She had to wait just an hour or so to see him coming down the avenue in his motorcycle.

All went smoothly as usual. She shot the motorcycle tires, and before he even reached the pavement there was a bullet in his head. It took some maneuvering but Rachel managed to put him in the boot of the car, and the bike in a dirty alleyway.

She drove to Springbrook Road and dumped the corpse out of view. It was late, so she decided to park at the All Saints Cemetery and sleep there.

In the morning, walking down the aisles, she found a particular gravestone in accordance to her needs. She digged the sand and buried her phone. Rachel died with Jake that day.

Not that she ever existed anyway.

But Mary Morstan would have a proper chance to live this time.

 

_Later in 2008, Mary Morstan landed in Dublin._

When Mary received the call she had already heard the name. She'd been expecting this for months. If the guy was the Napoleon of crime, as everyone in the "underworld" seemed to think, he would work only with high-profile professionals.

And she was on top of her business, no modesty applied.

What she hadn't been expecting was to hear the soft voice whisper her birth name 

'Despite what it may seem, Ms. Morstan, I'm not interested at all in who you are, only in your services.' he said in a singing and fairly annoying voice. It gave her chills from the bottom of her spine.

"And yet you hold this power over me" she thought nervously. This is not how a job is supposed to go. But the offer was beyond tempting. 

 

_By the time you were back to England, she started working with Moriarty._

In her chosen professional area, one couldn't exactly pinpoint ideal aspects of a job. She certainly wouldn't find a career analysis in a The Economist article. She did have, however, years in field, lived in many countries and collected payments in all sorts of methods. A comparison table chart wasn't even a bad idea, but she didn't need one to know she got the best deal in ages.

Mary was based in Ireland, with the occasional skip to Scotland, Wales and England's countryside. Apparently Moriarty already had London and big cities covered, but then, it didn't really surprise her. She set up a proper bank account, which received a more than adequate sum in a monthly basis. She had her beard job as usual, as a nurse at the local A&E. Every time a service coincided with day job an extra fare was delivered in her account.

It actually reminded her of the CIA times, but with the perks of freelance.

And also way more risky, she made sure to remind herself every time.

To be honest, she wasn't getting any younger. She actually liked the thrill and danger, but her body and mind would soon start to disagree. Perhaps this could be the last time. The regularity helped to build her own finances for once, few more years and she could just drop it and settle, have a family.

Was it possible to do it and not die out of boredom?

Nursing wasn't actually so bad. At uni she heard a lot that nurses were only wannabe doctors who failed, or didn't have the capacity. But she never had the interest in being a doctor. It was being a nurse that planted the idea that she could be an assassin.

That came to mind as vague memory when Moriarty summoned her to a "very special meeting" as he put. She was disconcerted to enter a lounge room with, well, other people. True that any protocol was ever given but maybe that was the CIA experience speaking.

The group was quite diverse. Standing out there were two huge black guys, probably african, who looked like twin brothers. They talked to each other in a low voice, and she identified a bit of portuguese. A slim citiboy lookalike didn't look up from his smartphone. There was a blond woman staring at her, probably checking the similarities between them, as she certainly was from East Europe. A bald and tattooed guy was so stereotypical she almost laughed. An indian woman with boyish hair (now _that_ was surprising) seeming very comfortable. Two men in their forties that she would bet being americans and an asian girl that clearly was the youngest there arrived just after her.

'Oh dear, we finally have everyone together. How are you my lovelies?' finally said a tiny man entering the room in an expensive suit.

Mary barely hold her gasp, and she noticed her reaction wasn't sole.

Everyone could recognise that voice in a distance.

'Oh please, don't look like that. Daddy is so excited!' Moriarty smiled like a cartoon villain. 'I have a biiig project for you all. It will be… quite explosive!' he giggled.

"No puns intended" Mary thought, after he explained.

 

_She was in the group of expert snipers Moriarty assembled. He used them in very special occasions if you remember well._

Moriarty was insane and Mary was too old for this.

She shot an old woman just because she described his voice. It wasn't the first time she assassinated someone that age but usually they have good reasons to do it. The lady was blind for god's sake.

The youngest of the twin brothers had a child on hold until the very last seconds before the boss called off. That actually showed why he was still the boss, he knew perfectly well that the older twin would have fired for anticipation.

And now, as Mary and other three comrades watched the scene by the pool, she asked herself if this Sherlock Holmes fella was just a detective interfering with the crime scene (hence the business) or he had something personal justifying Moriarty's obsession with him. In her experience she knew many other men and women in England considerably more powerful than him, as in they could destroy his empire just by talking to the right people. The skinny guy was just solving some crimes to his clients.

John Watson, though. That one was interesting. She read his profile - veteran, doctor, PTSD. Physically he reminded her David a lot, but more handsome. She also checked his infamous blog - that made two for people obsessed with Sherlock Holmes.

The whole situation was so unnerving her finger on the trigger got antsy. Ten years behind she would have loved this, but right now she didn't know what she wanted. Maybe her energies for this sort of life were already drained. It was starting to make her angry.

Out of nowhere, John Watson gets Moriarty in a tight embrace, and tell Sherlock to run. It intensified her bad mood. Everyone in the world revolved around Sherlock fucking Holmes, was it? What was that special about him after all? Arrogant posh sod. She's seen a lot of those.

What if…

What if she stopped him. Stopped all of this theatrical puzzle. Without Sherlock Holmes in the way, Moriarty would back to normality maybe? She could keep her two jobs, excellent incomes, and even pursue a family. David seemed keen in developing their baby relationship. She would be able to wait a few more years before dropping the assassin ordeal.

Aadhya moved to make a signal, but Mary gestured to her and she stopped, looking curious. Mary herself turned the red light to Sherlock's head, and observed Watson's realisation face.

'Make a move, John' she murmured to herself. 'Give me a reason, come on'

He didn't. Holmes didn't run and Watson released Moriarty. She could only watch, completely perplexed, as the "dynamic duo" agreed to die by shooting the detonators. Apparently Moriarty wasn't the only one insane in the room.

It struck her that the explosion would probably kill them too.

"That's how this ends? Quite pathetic, isn't it" she thought bitterly. And then Bee Gees started to play.

She accomplished not to laugh hysterically just so. Why she believed this bloody movie of a life was an ideal job? In the end, Moriarty cut the operation off. The bastard probably hadn't even been afraid to die, he was just a show-off like Sherlock Holmes. 

And about one thing she was certain: it would not be easy to get rid of him.

 

_When Moriarty shot himself that day, he didn't give any warning to anyone. The snipers positioned in Baker Street, Scotland Yard and St. Barts left per the instructions provided initially. It took long for them to catch on the news since it never made to the press. Many tried to head of the unfinished business, proclaimed to be Moriarty's heir. But according to the records, Mary went rogue. After some months she moved to London._

She dated David for two years before getting tired of him. Probably it was not his fault, but all the things that culminated in their relationship. Furthermore, being in Dublin that put her in contact with Moriarty, and she wanted to get rid of all that life. She was so bloody grateful for his disturbance. In addition, the problematic obsession had gone with him. All was perfect.

It took a year for her to finally meet John Watson. In what she considered a move of fate, they started working in the same clinic. However, after all that time, he still grieved deeply for his friend's death and it showed to the most observant ones, like her. Likely seeing a therapist.

Oh, but that wouldn't do.

Mary empathised with him. James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes made their lives quite difficult. But John was in the obsession circle, so he had a blind spot on that aspect. But she could change that.

So everyday she was, oh, so lovely to him. Happy good mornings, good afternoons, good-bye see you tomorrows. Being solicitous. Grinning when they exchanged looks. Bringing coffee in their intervals - making sure their intervals coincided.

Gradually he started to open his defenses. They would talk about amenities, but that wasn't good. Colleagues talked about amenities, and she wanted more.

'Do you miss someone from the Army?' she asked with a soft smile and open expression, watching him squirm subtly in his seat.

'Ah, well, you know, we were all brothers in arms, cliché and everything' he told looking at the table, his mouth doing funny moves.

'But surely you have a special friend. We all have that one' she pushed gently, smiling wider.

John looked at her breasts briefly, like he couldn't help it. Good. 'Yeah. Well. I was quite close to my superior, James Sholto. I think he's Major now.' he said trying to look neutral but with a softness around his eyes.

Oh John, really, that obvious?

She kept quiet, smiling. He glanced at her, surely waiting a comment or something of the kind. She remained watching him expectantly. He glanced again at her breasts and then away, as if he sensed he was going to get caught.

'Yeah, ah, we talked a lot back then. He didn't contact me after he was discharged, though. A few years can distance people after all.' he broke the awkward silence, contemplating her face.

'Oh, that's a shame. But it's your fault too, isn't it? You can't always wait for the other person to keep in contact' she said staring straight into his eyes. He appeared uncomfortable again, frowning slightly.

'Hm. You're right. Maybe if...'

'The interval is over. Why don't you invite me for drinks, ahn?' she winked at him, getting up and pulling him with her. 'I love talking to you' she smiled at him.

He smiled back, a bit flirtatious. 'Sure. How about tomorrow night?'

She grinned. 'Perfect'.

 

_A.G.R.A. What it stands for?_

_Anna-Greta Regina Agnes. Hungarian. She still lived there when she first killed someone._

 

\-- * --

 

John turned absently minded the flash drive in his hand, staring at a spot in the linoleum floor, knowing Sherlock was regarding him closely. When wasn’t he?

‘It’s empty, isn’t it?’ he said without putting emphasis in the question mark.

‘Yes. Just a bluff’ 

‘If she was ready to kill to keep her secret she never actually stopped being an assassin, isn’t it?’ John asked, not really intending for an answer, but expecting a sharp remark from Sherlock.

But Sherlock just picked up all the files and photographs resting on top of his duvet, organizing back in Mycroft’s folder, and putting them away. He glanced briefly to the door, where he could see his brother’s personal assistant, whom John insisted in calling Anthea, planted outside. No one would get in, even by force. John still wouldn’t look at him.

‘Tell me what you want’ 

‘For this mess to be over like it never existed?’ John replied sarcastically, pocketing the flashdrive and looking for all means ready to leave.

‘I can’t do that, but I can fix this for you. You just have to tell me what you want’ 

That got John’s attention. For the first time since Sherlock started exposing Anna-Greta’s past, John looked at his face. He still looked like shit, and the moderate administration of morphine made him spasm with pain minutely every once and then, fine sweat covering his brow and fists clenching when he wasn’t looking. It would be dramatic to say silence was heavy, but that never actually happened in a hospital. Sherlock’s monitors beeped softly. 

‘I want my child.’ he said resolutely, locking his gaze with him.

‘Ok.’ he answered without so much as blinking. ‘What about Anna-Greta?’

His eyes were bluer than ever, John thought idly. He shrugged.


	2. The Holmes Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to plot your future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same, not betaed, not brit-picked, not English-speaker, any mistakes please point them out and explain to me! Thank you!

Being back at 221B by himself after almost three years is strange and yet reminiscent of those times John still can't bring himself to talk about. Funny thing that, considering he's been living a hell of a lie since then. No, Sherlock is not dead, no Mary is not her real name, no he didn't marry a fucking normal person.

 

And no, he has absolutely no idea how he is supposed to feel.

 

He spent hours rummaging those files with Sherlock. His brother pulled enough strings to uncover Mary's life since early adulthood, probably outraged at himself for letting things get out of control this way. If Magnussen knew where to gather those informations, trust Mycroft Holmes to be able to do it as well.

 

Anna-Greta. He presumes that's how he should call her by now. According to the reports, all the documentation used was false, which meant he was never married after all.

 

Not that a piece of paper mattered. They were together… fair enough, not a long time, but sufficient to be significative for him. She is pregnant with his child! But the lies weren't the worst thing.

 

Sherlock lied too. In huge proportions. Not about his past, you see, but his future. Which figures, future is not predictable isn't it? Anything could happen. And it changed for him, bringing Sherlock back. Even if he wasn't really dead, he'd been gone for John. John practically felt like dying too.

 

So Mary… Anna-Greta's transgression wasn't so bad. He could live without knowing. It wouldn't matter - or it shouldn't - that someone wanted their past to be erased.

 

However, she chose the unbelievably worst way to deal with it. Not only hiding, but actively ready to murder to prevent John knowing she was - oh, the irony, a murderer.

 

And even if he fancies that her behaviour that actually put her in a bad path, it keeps coming to memory Sherlock, still in a hospital bed mind you, reading that she had been one of Moriarty's snipers - she was the one who shot the blind old woman and she was at the pool - in different minor circumstances, she would have put a bullet in John's skull. She would have watched him blow up.

 

No wonder it was very easy for her to just shoot Sherlock that way - she's probably been waiting years for the opportunity.

 

He has a lot to think about and he has the space. At the same time he doesn't want to think about anything.

 

So he showers, changes into his pyjamas - how Anthea entered his house to pack some things for him he really didn't want to know - and pours some scotch. He sits by the fireplace, sipping the bitter drink slowly, refilling the glass a few times.

 

He drunkenly watches nothing, or the alcohol creates abstract images in the living room. He vaguely remembers his stag night, but there were more giggles on that occasion. There were giggles, period.

 

It's late hours before he retreats to bed, mind blissfully obtuse. He tries to go up the stairs, but suddenly they seemed very dangerous. So he stumbles across the corridor.

 

Out of nowhere a door bangs and he sits up quickly, making the room spin. It takes a bit to realise with great confusion that he had been sleeping in Sherlock's bed and he doesn't even remember getting there. 

 

He checks Sherlock's radio clock on the bedside table. 10am. Christ. He lies down again, scrubbing his face, trying to chase away the dizzy sensation of sleep. 

 

First thing he notices, Sherlock's bed isn't as soft as he believed. The mattress leans on the hard side, and is still more comfortable than John's… couple bed.

 

Second thing he notices, he is a lot calmer now. Angry, he guesses for the rest of his life, but coherent, even if needing the loo insistently, and having a faint nausea sensation creeping up.

 

He idly tries to guess if Sherlock sleeps in the middle of the bed or at one side. Then he catches himself and cut the train of thought, getting up to clean himself.

 

The flat isn't the same without Sherlock in there. Too much silence for once. And yet there is something purple-ish growing in three saucers on the kitchen's table, rosin stains by the windowsill, and a handmade diagram for inflicted asphyxiation resting on the sofa. John feels more at ease here than at his house in the suburbs.

 

Which makes everything less complicated. He'd been lying to himself for a long time, judgement clouded by the decisions he took while in grief. Now that the truth hit him in the face, he could properly entertain the insecurities he had.

 

He had never been never completely comfortable with Mary. She had a very deliberate way to seduce him, presenting herself as the perfect partner for life. At all their dates before getting serious they would drink, and he would get more relaxed. He was crowded, defensive, and she put herself in his way, being pushy, funny, quickly assuming the ride.

 

He should have suspected, when Sherlock came back and he didn't think she was that interesting anymore. But, he had thought, how unfair would that be? Obviously he had missed Sherlock. It was novelty. He should just wait for it to pass, for everything to get normal again, and he would be just in love as before.

 

After that, there was the wedding. He had asked himself if it was normal to not to be fully delighted, participating in all the plans - even Sherlock had been completed involved. And all John wanted was to ignore all that.

 

'It's comprehensible, John, ' she had told him with a condescending smile. 'It's a new phase of your life. Obviously you are nervous. Why don't you and Sherlock leave for a bit, uhn? Catch some criminals, fresh air!'

 

At the reception… ok, too much. He didn't want to think about the reception, or the dangerous things that crossed his mind that night.

 

And then the first month as a husband… it definitely wasn't what he expected. Although he didn't know why to expect things in the first place since they already lived together.

 

He didn't expect wanting to get out of there all the time. Or punching someone. Anyone really. That's the reason he was unnecessarily rough on Wiggins.

 

Well, the thing is: now that he didn't have the obligation to feel good about his life, he realized what a mess it had been since the beginning.

 

_I can fix this for you. You just have to tell me what you want._

 

He sits in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock has been on observation for a few days now. After he left the hospital unsupervised his lungs almost failed, and he had to spend overnight in ventilators. Since he hadn't been even near of full recovery, residual blood had slipped in the space between his chest wall and his lungs, and made him short of breath for the whole time while John shouted at him and kicked furniture around.

 

At the hospital they had to suck out the blood. The tubes were removed the night John came home. Mycroft made sure he would be safe, so John could rest. He would come back there after lunch.

 

All this happening and all Sherlock would talk about was John's wife, John's choices, John's child. Oh God, the child.

 

It wasn't the baby's fault in any capacity the crap of a mother they had. They were John's blood. Of course he would stay with his son ou daughter. And surely he could not trust Anna-Greta to take care of this.

 

Sherlock promised him he would think of something. So John let him scheme, and he was only going to listen, even if staying with the child was more of an impulse to do the right thing, and not a careful deliberation of his future.

 

'Morning!'

 

He jumps at the bright tone, but smiles all the same.

 

'Ta, Mrs. Hudson, do you need something?'

 

'Well dear, I do want to know how Sherlock is, I was going to pop up yesterday but you seemed so tired...' she tsks and sits at Sherlock's chair.

 

'Sorry, yes, I'm sorry, I forgot' he apologizes regretting not going to her sooner. 'He's fine, now they have to be sure he doesn't get pneumonia or infections. When he's finished with antibiotics he'll be ready to come home, to rest if you believe it'

 

'Like that would happen' she laughs. 'I'm happy! I'm already missing him. We are talking a lot more these days, you know?'

 

Oh no, there it comes.

 

'By the way… how are things with Mary?' she asks conscientiously. He sighs.

 

'We haven't talked Mrs. Hudson. I believe she's at home. I'm still… sorting this out.'

 

She watches him for a moment.

 

'Surely Sherlock mentioned about how we met, John?'

 

'Ahn… I don't think he did?' he replies confused.

 

'You see - when I got married I barely knew my husband. I told you that before. Love seemed to just bloom overnight. When he asked me to do the typing… well, it never crossed my mind to refuse. Obviously I ended up getting involved with many things. So when I'd get too stressed he would give me some marijuan-oh don't look like that, it's not the end of the world.'

 

'It helped until it didn't. I was so young. And as years became decades, I would think to myself, what am I doing here? Why am I doing this? When you remove the love factor it gets so hard to understand some of our decisions isn't it dear?'

 

'Until it came the day that he asked me to deliver some papers to a guy, who got very angry. I don't even know what they were about, but the guy beat me anyway.'

 

'Oh my God!' John exclaims, not containing the shock in his face.

 

'Yeah, won't lie, it was pretty terrible. I barely arrived home, in tears, and my husband only complained I didn't take something he asked, I don't remember well. It was when I realized that our marriage had always been about him - what he wanted, how he wanted, what would I do to help him. So I reported him to the authorities.'

 

'Glad you did!' he replies feeling angry for a long dead man.

 

'That's how I met Sherlock.' she continues, now with a warm smile. 'I don't know why he was in Florida of all places that year, I fancy it was fate! The americans didn't have enough evidence to convict my husband. I couldn't tell them everything because I was so involved I was afraid they would jail me too. And obviously he knew it was me who gave him away, so I was also scared of dying, and the feeling that I knew he would kill me out of spite, oh I asked myself why I ignored that for so long.'

 

'Sherlock was at the delegacy, harassing some sergeants into letting him help with something. They dismissed him, of course. He was so young then! I don't know what got into me, but I was already an old woman who didn't live a proper life to have anyone else to resort. I managed to contact him, and I told him everything I knew. He presented all the evidence to the solicitor without so much a mention to my name. So many crimes! He went to the death row and for the first time in years I felt relieved.'

 

She smiles to herself, as if reminding of other memories she wouldn't say aloud. John lets her be, and tries to imagine a younger version of her and Sherlock.

 

'I couldn't be more devastated when he jumped' she announces suddenly, breaking the silence. 'But when he came back, it all made sense to me. Of course he would go that far to protect us. He did to me when we practically didn't know each other!'

 

Her eyes fill with tears, and John looks away, a bit embarrassed. He waits for her to compose herself before speaking.

 

'Thank you for telling me this, Mrs. Hudson' he tells her quietly.

 

'Oh shut up, just a story you probably didn't want to hear' she retorts playfully. 'But take care ok?'

 

He dry swallows. 'I will.'

 

'Now take that look of your face, let's have lunch downstairs. I prepared roast beef'

 

\-- * --

 

John runs into Mycroft in the hospital hallway.

 

'Dr. Watson, great timing. He's been his usual difficult self about breathing therapy.' he says visibly controlling the urge to roll his eyes.

 

'And you want me to convince him to behave, as usual.' John responds trying not to be sarcastic.

 

'Oh, I trust he will listen to you. But that's not my concern, right now. Care for some news?'

 

'Oh.' John braces himself. 'Go on then.'  
'Ms. Agnes is being quite… civil. She's at home, having only left to go to work or the supermarket. This morning had a quick trip to the pharmacy. I'm keeping an eye of course, since it's very unexpected, shall we say?' Mycroft finishes, one eyebrow raised. It disturbingly reminded him of Sherlock.

 

'Yeah, ahn… do that, please.' John couldn't think for any reason to be there anymore. 'Thank you. I should go to your brother now.' he moves to pass by him, but Mycroft touches his shoulder with the black umbrella.

 

'Sherlock told me where your priorities lie right now. What do you plan next?' Mycroft asks bluntly, with a serious expression, looking at him right in the eye. John blinks twice.

 

'I suppose that's what your brother and I are doing, isn't it?' he answers stiffly.

 

Mycroft's eyes narrow, mouth upturning slightly. 'I mean after that, John. You seem to be making yourself at home again in 221B. But surely you don't expect that Sherlock accommodates you and a baby in his flat that easily, do you?'

 

John opens his mouth and closes it again. He stays silent.

 

Mycroft sighs.

 

'I know it's been pleasant to you, stopping by when you want until you're satisfied with _nostalgia_ ' he pronounces the word with a tone of distaste. 'And going back to your little house and family. Sherlock is enough of a fool to permit this, but things are… dramatically changed now. And I can't say I approve of this.' 

 

He looks so much like the first day, in the abandoned parking lot, that John almost tells him about bloody nostalgy. He clenches his fists by his sides.

 

'I'm sure that whatever decision about the flat concerns Sherlock only.' he replies without breaking eye contact, contracting his jaw. Mycroft gives a little laugh.

 

'When the last choices you made put him in a ventilator, Doctor Watson, I believe it reached my domain.' he answers with a tough expression. And then in a cold tone 'My brother can be very naive sometimes. Consider your actions prudently. Afternoon.' Before John could say anything else he leaves.

 

John stays there, breathing deeply, looking at the floor, for more minutes than he intended.

 

\-- * --

 

'Oh, _finally_ ' Sherlock exclaims dramatically as usual. 'What took you so long?'  
John closes the door behind him after the nurse leaves, looking very relieved. 'Met your brother downstairs. He said something about breathing therapy.'

 

'Oh yes, the insufferable fat. I expulsed him. And I'm not even talking about _therapy_ ' he grimaces, producing a myriad of chins John would never stop finding funny.

 

'Why? Breathing is boring?' 

 

Sherlock grins at him. John grins back, heart fluttering for an instant.

 

Then he notices the notepad by Sherlock's bed. Sherlock follows his gaze and clears his throat awkwardly.

 

'We can start to discuss now, if you want' he says. John blinks at the notepad, trying not to think about Mycroft's words.

 

'Ok.'

 

He sits down close, while Sherlock positions himself better in the bed. John passes him the notepad.

 

'So, I had a few ideas, I will read them and you tell me which one you are more inclined to.'

 

'Sorry, a moment' Sherlock looks at him. 'I'm the one choosing? I thought this wouldn't be… deliberated'

 

Sherlock looked impossibly puzzled.

 

'Why wouldn't we deliberate a plan for _your_ life?' he asks slowly, as if talking to, well, an idiot.

 

'I.' John says eloquently. 'I-- don't know? I thought you would... ' he swallows, hateful, hateful Mycroft coming to mind again. 'Nevermind, go on.'

 

Sherlock side-eyes him but complies.

 

'Since Anna is still in early weeks of pregnancy, waiting is mandatory. Hence, we have two courses of action: before and after the baby is born. The second part is actually easier. The kid is yours, so you have no custody problems. Assuming she would be favourable, you could divorce her and share guardianship-'

 

'Not an option.'

 

'Thought so. But I had to ask. Second, we could charge her. Mycroft has enough evidence. And being in MI-6 territory there wouldn't be much media frenzy, if they get to know at all. She would be in a special prison and not a bother for decades.'

 

John inwardly debates this.

 

'She would ask for the right to see the child, and authorities would give her. Everyone is partial to the mother. I don't want my kid to grow up with their mother in prison, can you imagine school?'

 

Sherlock just checks out more lines in the notepad.

 

'So, no influence over the kid. Ok. There's the possibility that she… disappears. Not uncommon in her profession.'

 

John gapes at him. 'You mean get her killed?'

 

'Didn't say that.'

 

'You implied.'

 

'You were the one saying it aloud.'

 

'Nope, don't bring this to me. We are not killing anyone like that.'

 

'We wouldn't do anything to be honest. Mycroft certainly can arrange the operation, the withdrawal of the corpse--'

 

'Sherlock. No.'

 

'All right, I got it. But John, only one option remains and it's the hardest way.'

 

John sighs and braces himself. 'What is it?'

 

'We could negotiate with her. Give her some incentives so she gives you full guardianship and leaves Britain, to not come back again.'

 

They look at each other, and John presumes Sherlock is trying to track his thoughts.

 

'There's absolutely no guarantee she would do that of course' Sherlock complements. 'Consequently, we must plan for long-term. She needs to go through her pregnancy being calm, and we drop the idea in small doses, until she's compliant with it.'

 

'But, how would we do that? There's no way we can monitor her actions or feelings right now.'

 

Sherlock looks away for a second but John sees it. 'Sherlock. Spill it out.'

 

He ultimately sighs.

 

'That leads us to the first part of the plan. I told you the second was easier. If we need to go through this _softly_ you should… go back to her.' he finishes with an almost painful expression.

 

John gapes at him for what felt like ages.

 

'I'm sorry, what?'

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and rests back against his pillows. 'I know it seems insane, but think with me ok? All this is happening because she wanted to prevent you from knowing the truth about her, she wanted to keep you. If you pretend to forgive her, she'll feel like she's won after all.'

 

John gets up to pace around, turning this over his head. Surprisingly, Sherlock was quiet, letting him process the information.

 

'I can't do this. I'm horrible at lying. She will know and she will retaliate, this is a terrible idea.'

 

'It doesn't have to be immediate. It's actually better if you took your time, because she will perceive you were angry but willing to forgive after some thought.'

 

John still looked hesitant.

 

'We will rehearse it, John. I will give you a script if you want it. You'll have time to get used to it. But in the way you want things, I don't see any alternative.'

 

After what seemed an eternity, John groans.

 

'All right! All right!' he exclaims exasperated. 'Let's do that. I hope you know what you're doing Sherlock Holmes.'

 

Sherlock displayed a very young face.

 

'I am. Trust me. You'll do well.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted next Thursday, 21/01/16.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr!! Username thanks-mike-stamford :D


	3. Break a leg!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players" Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language. Please point any mistakes, and explain them! Thank you for reading!

John wasn't doing well.

 

'I understand that you had to. If you promise not to do again, I forgive you.'

 

He doesn't even need Sherlock to say anything because the detective's face shows exactly his opinion on John's performance. He speaks anyway. 'That was atrocious. Nobody would believe that.'

 

John closes his eyes for a moment and then regards Sherlock, back from the hospital but still on breathing therapy, reclined at the sofa while John practised. He starts again.

 

'I chose to marry you. I'm still angry but I'll respect that. We-' he pauses to deep breath again. He sees Mrs. Hudson in his peripheral vision with a tray of biscuits.

 

'Ok, this is very awkward, don't stop in the middle of a sentence.' Sherlock says as he gets a biscuit. 'Thank you Mrs. Hudson. Come sit to evaluate too!'

 

'So, John, you were saying?' she asks with her usual cheery face, sitting beside Sherlock.

 

'Ok. Ahm. Mary, I forgive you. I'll protect our family, so--so you don't have to, hm-'

 

'Why are you stuttering? It will seem you yourself don't believe it.'

 

'Well, it's because IT'S NOT TRUE isn't it?' he snaps at Sherlock.

 

'Woah, rude, young man!' Mrs. Hudson chastises him. 'Come on, eat a biscuit.'

 

'I DON-I don't want a biscuit, thank you Mrs. Hudson.' he turns to the fireplace, listening to her leaving the room while muttering. He waits for Sherlock's remark.

 

'Boxing.'

 

Not exactly what he expected. 'What?' he turns back, finding Sherlock alone again in the sofa.

 

'Recent studies showed evidences for positive effects of physical activity on mental health, and learning a new sport provides a distraction from mental illness. Also, exercises are very effective in improving concentration and overall cognitive function, which can be helpful if you are too stressed to concentrate. Specifically in martial arts case, psychologists have found positive correlations between practicing and lower levels of hostility. My recommendation is boxing because I'm familiar with its practising.'

 

John blinked at him. 'So, in sum you are suggesting boxing to me because you used to and it helps to relax?'

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, basically that. You're still too angry to do this properly.'

 

'Wait, you never told me you used to box.'

 

'Well you never asked.' Sherlock frowns at him. 'And I'm telling now. I propose you rest today, go look for it if it interests you, and while that I'll write a script. Obviously you can't be accounted to do it on your own.'

 

John goes to the sofa and sits heavily beside Sherlock, eating three biscuits before speaking.

 

'We can't wait much. We don't know what she's thinking right now.'

 

'I'm still recovering, she'll have this excuse very easily. But we could give you a timetable, how about that?'

 

'We could work on that. Pressure productivity. What do you suggest?'

 

'How about we invite her for Christmas? My mother is being insufferable about me coming over.'

 

'That… sounds lovely actually.'

 

'Settled then.'

 

'But have you already thought about what we're giving as incentive in the negotiations?'

 

Sherlock looked very dangerous and much like his old self. 'Oh, I have an idea for that. Don't worry'.

 

Which didn't exactly put John at ease.

 

\-- * --

 

He goes to a close gym that offers boxing classes and register himself as a beginner after they do a physical test. He's not on his best weight anymore, but it's not that bad. The idea coming from Sherlock honestly surprised him, but he was right: punching something was the best way to avoid punching someone these last days.

 

The practising thing demonstrated to be way tougher than he had anticipated. First, he was terrible at acting. Unlike Sherlock, he never participated in the school plays. Once at primary school his mother obligated him to, but he was so awful that the teacher dressed him as a tree and instructed him not to open his mouth. But everyone saw him making absurd faces at the back while Dorothy was attacked by Ethan-the apple tree.

 

Furthermore, it wasn't just acting was it? He has to actively lie to someone he's been having mixed feelings - leaning on the despise side. He would have to pretend to forgive someone he definitely doesn't want to forgive, he would have to pretend to forget Anna-Greta's story, when it was embed in his brain.

 

And he hasn't really started to think about the months he would have to spend living with her. Again.

 

His trainer was a short brunette called Shannon. She instructs him to do a warming-up and then teaches basic positions for hands, feet and knees. At the end of his hour she makes him shadow fight in front of a mirror.

 

When he asks if tomorrow could they work on a heavy bag she laughs and acquiesces.

 

He's so exhausted he only finds the strength to shower before falling in bed.

 

In the morning all his muscles appeared to be on a protesting strike. Sherlock notices of course, and surprisingly reviews some positions with him. They don't talk about the other practising.

 

The next night Shannon explains how he uses a sandbag. Basically he needs to treat it like an opponent, and delivers attacks as he would in a real person. He goes over the few techniques he knows, trying to remember his lessons.

 

_If you love me don't read in front of me._

 

Two punches on the kidneys, a kick in the legs.

 

_Because you won't love me when you finished._

 

A series of punches in the abdomen.

 

'John?'

 

_And I don't want to see that happen._

 

"Yeah damn right"

 

Two kicks and his on knee gives a warning. He stops

 

'John! You're okay?' Shannon asks him appearing a bit worried. He cleans the sweat in his brow with a washcloth.

 

'Yes! Yes. I just got carried away a bit.' he winces and drinks water from his squeeze, as Shannon makes a comprehending expression.

 

'I see lots with your profile around here. Feeling stressed, wanting to chill out. Boxing is great to do that.' she smiles at him. 'Just take care not to strain yourself ok?'

 

She goes to another woman using a speedbag, looking more experienced than a beginner. John checks her out while she's at it. She has small breasts but large hips. She cuts her hair neck short and has a cute nose. In other circumstances he would ask her out.

 

He turns back to the heavy bag, punching it lightly, adjusting his position. His wedding band is safe at home, in a drawer of his bedside table. He would put it back when it came the time. But right now, even feeling tense for weeks, he can't think of dating or anything related. He barely masturbates, and when he does he finds it hard to concentrate. Now he interacts with a hot woman and doesn't even have the impulse to flirt with her.

 

'John, your head is getting ahead of your knees!' Shannon says from somewhere in his peripheral vision. He corrects himself, remembering Sherlock's tips.

 

Now that it came to mind, he hasn't really stopped to think about Sherlock boxing. He had said he used to at Uni. That was a picture. Sherlock is really fit and stronger than he looked. How would it be, being in early twenties, athletic as girls usually like, mysterious and posh, with that voice that sounded like warm honey on ears, perhaps he trained shirtless…

 

He starts to violently punch the sandbag, forgetting all about positions.

 

'John, what are you doing?!'

 

\-- * --

 

He sleeps late through the next morning. When he wakes up Sherlock is watching what seems to be a documentary on bees.

 

'More Than Honey if you want to know.' he says without looking up.

 

'Marmalade too?' John answers while putting the kettle to boil. He decides for coffee against tea. Sherlock rolls his eyes so dramatically John fancies he can hear it.

 

'The name of the documentary, John, do keep up.'

 

'Ok then. Tell me about it.' why Sherlock still put the coffee in the cupboard Janine used to?

 

'Later. I finished your script.'

 

'Oh.' he turns and Sherlock is already in the kitchen, brandishing his notepad in John's direction for him to catch. There are lots of scribbles crossed and some things circled, and he put explanatory notes by the sides of the paper. He reads everything trying to visualize how he would say the words.

 

'This is not very clear don't you think?' he asks carefully, not wanting to offend his friend. 'I never actually say I forgive her and everything.'

 

But Sherlock just smiles very mischievously. 'Exactly. You have serious problems in lying, so I thought it would be better if you are ambiguous in your discourse. You never say the proper words, true, but the idea is heavily implied, even if it means the opposite of what she is wanting to hear. Read the catch-phrase'

 

'Ahn, "The problems of your past are your business, the problems of your future are my privilege". ' he reads aloud, evaluating it. 'Quite dramatic. That could be understood as I have the privilege to be with her in the future or-'

 

'Or the privilege of putting them there. Obviously she won't expect you to mean that while saying at her face. And she'll be softened after you say you didn't read the USB drive'

 

'Sherlock, that's brilliant!'

 

He beams at John, looking at him through his eyelashes. 'Now we have to practise how you are going to tell her, and also what you shouldn't mention while living with her.'

 

They rehearse what feels like a million times until the words stuck in John's brain. Sherlock says he genuinely is better at keeping his face neutral. At night he punches and kicks the sandbag to release the frustration. He goes over his sleep routine muttering the script. Sherlock had said that tomorrow they would exercise spontaneous answers to what she might rejoin during the first conversation, and after that all he should refrain doing to avoid raising suspicions from her.

 

If he was very skeptical with all this scheme, now he feels more serene. He could see himself omitting the truth until Sherlock and Mycroft convinced Anna-Greta to leave England. He has been even sleeping better, with the boxing fatigue. He could continue the classes after he (temporarily) moved back, but perhaps he would need to search for a gym closer to the suburbs.

 

Everything would be alright. 

 

\-- * --

 

**Hello. You okay?**  
**JW**

 

**What a surprise. Took you long enough.**  
**MW**

 

**Not looking for a fight right now, thanks. I want to invite you for Christmas at Sherlock's parents.**  
**JW**

 

**Why?**  
**MW**

 

**It's Christmas. And we need to talk.**  
**JW**

 

**Oh my god, is this the talk?**  
**MW**

 

**Please show up. I'll send you the address.**  
**JW**

 

**Ok.**  
**MW**

 

John shows the phone screen to Sherlock a last time. He takes a look and resumes plucking at his violin.

 

\-- * --

 

Sherlock doing things he hasn't communicated John is not news. The real problem is that when Sherlock doesn't tell his part of the plan, it usually leads to stupid or dangerous or disastrous ideas on his part. For a man who considered himself so smart above everyone in the room, he honestly needs John to guide him.

 

Bringing Wiggins to drug everyone into torpor so they could run with MI-6 top secret documents and whatever exists in that notebook was something Sherlock absolutely knew would upset John in many ways, so John is not surprised in the least. It makes sense that they need to wipe out Magnussen's information on Anna-Greta and for that a valuable exchange is required. That Sherlock had the balls to do it also doesn't make John blink.

 

John started to feel apprehensive when Magnussen exposed a record from the bonfire incident. Nobody, _bloody nobody_ had told him how he had been saved. He vaguely remembers Sherlock's scared and relieved face when he opened his eyes. But at the hospital Mary had stayed quiet about his participation so John just presumed firemen had done it. And then Magnussen insisted in making John watch Sherlock running unaided to the fire, yelling and emotional, he knew something was terribly wrong.

 

When he finally revealed that he had a mind palace of his own, he had been more astounded with Sherlock's shock, that he had made mistake, that he had counted with a crucial factor for the whole Anna-Greta plan to work, but it didn't exist. That all he had done had been for nothing. John was not used to Sherlock getting it wrong and not being able to force his way out.

 

All the boxing lessons, all the hope he had built up, it had been crumbling as he let Magnussen flick his face, and never before he had been so ready to pull his gun at blow up a motherfucker's face. And he invaded Afghanistan. Sherlock had stood there, emotions all over his face, something John finally had admitted to recognize, in the worst moment possible. Knowing what it meant, understanding that face at last, he should have known. He should have impeded it. He should have held him and told him it wasn't worth it.

 

All that crosses his mind as he stares at the back of Sherlock's head, ignoring Magnussen's body aside. Uniformed agents come up the terrace and cuff Sherlock up. They pat John to check for weapons. Useless, as the one he brought was taken by Sherlock, and lies on the floor.

 

He spent weeks to no end thinking the worst thing he would have to do was pretend to forgive Anna-Greta. Just a couple hours ago he had felt like vomiting while hugging her, thinking how past bad Christmas couldn't hold a candle to this one. All of that seems shallow right now, as he is left behind, watching they getting Sherlock into a car and leaving.

 

Mycroft has descended from the helicopter during the whole commotion, and gives some instructions to the people still in the area. They take photographs of everything, and some of them pass John in their way to inside the manor. A guy with a distinctive mole in his nose and a woman in glasses prepare to remove the corpse.

 

"Funny thing isn't it," John thinks a bit hysterically. "that the whole trouble started because he knew something, but it only takes a bullet in his head to guarantee he can't do anything else to anyone. It would have been better if he had some prints"

 

Now they have full control on information about Anna-Greta. There are no more additional variables with unexpected outcomes. Sherlock had solved that for him. They have a plan, and they can keep following it. He had fixed it for John.

 

 _Send my love to Mary_ was a reminder of that.

Mycroft approaches him, stern image in place. There's a tall blonde by his side, typing hurriedly in her Blackberry. 'Doctor Watson, Robin will take you and your wife home.' He starts to leave.

 

'Mycroft...'

 

'No. Shut up. I always presumed it's petty and childish revenge, however, in the light of this... occurrence, I believe the only thing I can say is I told you so. Hope your drive to London is safe.'

 

He enters the house, and John can hear him speaking to the agents still there.

 

'Doctor Watson?'

 

The blonde - Robin - was watching him with a strict look. 'We need to get into the helicopter.'

 

He feels numb as he does as she says. She is the one piloting. They arrive at the Holmes' cottage, but there's only a black car waiting outside. Robin lands and tells him to get out of the helicopter and into the car. The driver comes out of it to open the back door for him. As he enters the car, a floral fragrance invades his nostrils, making him nauseated. Anna sits in the middle, and appears to be worried.

 

'John, where are going now? What happened?'

 

'I'll explain later.' he sighs. 'But I suppose we're going home.'

 

She smiles hugely at him, and takes his hand, apparently satisfied. She doesn't ask anything else during the trip, but John already has a pounding headache all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whyyyyy
> 
> Talk to me on tumblr about anything you fancy! Username thanks-mike-stamford
> 
> Next chapter on thursday, 28/01/16, hope you stick around :')


	4. The Mind Bungalow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes on more trips than bargained, and John revisits some memories of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, not betaed not brit-picked not first language, any mistakes feel free to correct (and explain)!

John hungs up for the millionth time, and for an instant he almost throws his phone away, but it's not like he can afford another one at the moment. Besides, he would be contacted at any minute. Should be. Mycroft can't ignore him forever. He could perfectly invade the Diogene's and yell to all customers his dieting habits and love for cakes if it was necessary.

 

Three days and not a word about Sherlock. He barely slept, not with images of bullets in foreheads and skulls crashing in the pavement across his eyes every time he attempted to close them. The first night back at the suburbs he had to explain everything to Anna, cutting himself off several times to prevent calling her that name, but she didn't express much on the matter. She had been clearly happy that Magnussen was gone.

 

'He did say he was going to take my case, wasn't it, sweetheart?' she had pronounced with teary eyes and a fulfilled smile. 'We're safe now! Our daughter is safe!'

 

He had started at the sudden change of topic. 'Daughter?'

 

'Yes!' she grinned hugely, caressing her belly. 'I did a ultrasound some weeks ago. I remembered you told once that you'd like a girl, wasn't it? Oh, everything is perfect!'

 

The fact that she deliberately ignored Sherlock had been taken for the special government agents couple hours before to save her arse, and plus bringing up the child so soon, laughing it off like nothing happened, having the boldness to affirm everything was _perfect_ , it all piled up on John so hard it made him sick. 

 

He had excused himself to shower, and then to bed. He dreamt he and Sherlock were at a rooftop, not Bart's, and Magnussen was there laughing manically at him while being shot over and over again, and then Anna came out of nowhere and pushed Sherlock from the rooftop. John had tried to move, to scream, but he couldn't. He had woken up covered in sweat to find Anna sleeping peacefully by his side. He kept rolling on the bed without batting an eyelid until morning.

 

'John, put that phone down for god's sake, he is going to call if he needs you.' she says without looking up from the tablet.

 

He refrains from answering, knowing it wouldn't be less than a snap, but pockets his phone. He checks the window just in time the neighbor and her son are arriving together. He seems way better, but John can't really bring himself to care. He goes to the sofa fetch his own laptop. He doesn't have the guts to post again on his blog. In fact, last time it has been updated was during his honeymoon, by Sherlock himself. He remembers just observing Sherlock's interaction with the blog readers, until he said "John would ask me if he was here" and he had to turn off his phone to hold back calling the madman.

 

So he logs on Facebook instead. There are some messages in his inbox, but a quick check guarantees it's nothing important. He scrolls down his feed, past cat videos and stupid jokes and someone campaigning to help a child's surgery when a Time's post popped. Magnussen apparently died of sudden cardiac arrest caused by an undetected hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It made him slip on his bathroom and hit his head on the sink, so it was too quick for help. John has never seen a bigger euphemism for shot in the head.

 

It hits him that if the manufactured story is already out in the press, some decision has been made regarding Sherlock. Sudden death wasn't it? It meant he wouldn't been charged! Perhaps Mycroft finally managed to cover the issue, and he's got no reason to withhold information from John anymore.

 

'Why are you smiling like that?'

 

He jumps at her voice. He had forgotten she was there, now looking at him with suspicion. 'They released news on Magnussen. I think that means Sherlock will be out soon.'

 

She smirks. 'Oh, not surprised. Big brother always takes care of him. I don't know why you were so worried.' she looks contemplative for a second. 'You know what? I think we should invite him for dinner. I have to thank him properly, isn't it?'

 

He falters, realizing he had been smiling all this time. Sherlock and Anna had been very amicable to each other, even plotting on his back. Well, you say plotting. More like having silly conversations about John and the wedding. He is also a far greater actor than John, perhaps if he kept being friendly it would add up to the performance?

 

'If he's in the mood to eat, why not?' he answers not very sure of himself. Anna is not paying attention to him.

 

'I've been thinking you know,' she says scrolling down some website. 'since John and Mary are such common names, we should choose something more unique to her.'

 

'Ahn,' he says eloquently. 'ok?'

 

She sighs. 'I understand that you're worried, but everything is going to be all right, and you know it. I just, ' she turns of the tablet's screen. 'I've been passing through this alone. I didn't know if would come back. So, please? Please pay attention to this. Show you care. I know you're still a bit angry but I need this.'

 

He didn't know what to say to that. So he just acquiesced. 'Ok. Sorry.'

 

'Oh, you never saw the photos from our honeymoon! I printed an album, let me get it!' she bolts to the bedroom and comes back with a white cardboard box full of pictures, and he spends the next 40 minutes looking over every photo from their honeymoon at the beach. About to start on the wedding photos his phone chimes once.

 

**I'm coming over in 30min.  
MH**

 

Anna looked over his shoulder. 'Strange.' John doesn't respond, but he feels the same. Why would Mycroft take his time to come to his house having text or calls as alternative? Something was amiss.

 

He gets anxious again, pacing around. He goes to the loo to relieve himself, and wash his face. Anna is still looking at the photographs in the sofa when he hears a car parking outside. He peers Mycroft coming up to his door through the window. He moves to open the door for him. Mycroft looks fatigued, which had never occurred before, not even in the night he summoned John to inform he had sold information on Sherlock to Moriarty.

 

'May I sit down, Doctor Watson?' he asks politely and, why not, distant. John gestures to a chair, and takes a seat beside Anna, who shows no intention of speaking, or making herself perceived.

 

'First, as you're probably aware, Magnussen died instantly. We searched Appledore up and down. There are no documented files on… Mrs. Watson. ' he acknowledges her with a neutral expression. 'We also inspected security cameras in his building and you haven't been recorded in any of them. So you can cease your distress on that regard.' Mary doesn't respond, but John feels the satisfaction emanating from her miles away.

 

'What about Sherlock?'

 

Mycroft sighs. 'My brother's prospect has been largely discussed by the concerned authorities. I was able to suspend charges on official jurisdiction. However, he needs to compensate by providing services to the Union.'

 

'What, communitary services? Doesn't seem so bad.' John interrupts, a laugh already creeping up. But Mycroft remains serious.

 

'No. Special services. They are sending Sherlock to a classified mission in a critical country.'

 

John waits for Mycroft to finish, but he doesn't add anything else. Anna straights up next to him, but he avoids looking at her. Silence fills the room.

 

John is a former British Army Officer, Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. While in Afghanistan, he dealt with many operations he was not supposed to know the details, and special agents sent by "special services" from England. He was very much aware of the high risk, and why they kept changing agents. 'When?'

 

'After New Year.'

 

'On his own?' he ignores Anna watching him intently.

 

'I'm afraid so.'

 

He dry swallows twice.

 

'A car will take you to the tarmac, if you wish to… say good-bye.'

 

He concentrates on breathing for a moment. 'Can I meet him before that?'

 

'Unfortunately no. He will remain enclosed to be instructed about his next steps.' he stands up. 'And I have to cut short this visit. Important matters to handle, surely you understand. I'll see myself out, thank you.'

 

Anna gets up after him to lock the door. John goes to the cabinet to fetch a drink. While he's pouring she comes to hug him from behind. He stops himself from recoiling in the last second. He notices she's a bit sided so her belly is not in the way. He lets her stay there and keeps sipping.

 

\-- * --

 

A fortnight before Moriarty broke into the Tower of London, John and Sherlock had been working on a personal project. Sherlock had no cases, and experiments would only entertain him so far. So John asked him to share the techniques of building a mind palace. John was a far more modest person than Sherlock, so he called this project his Mind Bungalow, which Sherlock viewed as very amusing, but he agreed with a touch of proud that didn't go unnoticed.

 

For someone so impatient with slow performance and intolerant of obtuseness, Sherlock was a surprisingly good teacher. John had been correct when he assumed the process was similar to meditation, but instead of clearing one's mind, he ought to compartmentalize information in categories and subcategories. Picturing this as rooms of a house was in fact a way to activate visual memory, which is the easier to remember.

 

If everything you learn is categorized and compartmentalized, whatever remains is outlier and must be deleted. If it's not associated with what you made easier to remember, you won't remember at all. It would fall in the brain void in a very deliberate mechanism.

 

Undeniably he couldn't hold a candle at Sherlock's ability in this, since he had years of use. He also wasn't as disciplined as Sherlock, but he had been in medical school, so he gave himself some credit. He decided to start low, and make advantage of his already extended medical knowledge. He would build some cabinets to it in a humble bungalow.

 

Sherlock said that drawing a plan would help at first. So he scribbled a living room, with cabinets in a semicircle by the walls. First one for human anatomy, then other for diseases and its symptoms plus one for treatment pharmacos. This should be good to start with. Seeing the visual part was the purpose of the whole thing, he imagined the place in soft yellow wallpaper, the two windows decorated with closed curtains and a sofa in the middle.

 

He invested money he didn't have in the cabinets, it was his mind after all. They were classically made of thick dark wood with carved flowers, and sophisticated golden door knobs. He envisioned himself sitting at the sofa just staring at the living room many times until it was familiar enough. Then he started to fill the cabinets. His data was abstract of course, but somehow thinking about putting it in a solid place made it tangible.

 

He had misjudged the difficulty of the task, but he could see he would improve if he kept organizing the room, as Sherlock did. Thus, without telling his mentor, he started a parallel project, at a much slower pace.

In the far wall of the room, set at the corner of the eye if he was sitting in the sofa, John created another cabinet. This one also in thick wood, but closer to a reddish tone, with copper door knobs. The design mixed classic and modern, with carved drawings representing abstract things he didn't know how to put in words. The exterior was carefully polished. The interior had some shelves and drawers, and a rack with empty hangers.

 

Through the years he gradually occupied the interior of this cabinet, and it seemed it always had space for more. Initially he put a purple shirt, a Belstaff coat, a blue scarf and a Woolrich parka in the hangers. In the bottom drawer a single slipper with cigarettes stashed inside. In a space he put clippings of newspapers obituaries, next to a printed version of the peculiarities of 243 types of tobacco ashes. Top drawer contained his casebook, abandoned. Burned gloves, a vase of _Syringa_ (not the _Vulgaris_ species), a single bullet, among many other things.

 

And in the top shelf, the one he couldn't reach without a chair, the very first thing he deposited inside the cabinet, a locked box. He had the key somewhere, but he didn't remember exactly.

 

\-- * --

 

Anna is _radiant_ and John has to keep his gaze at the window to not punch her in the face. She speaks to the driver cheerfully about gas prices, even if he barely talks back. She comments how she watched Casablanca in teenage years and now tarmacs are associated with romantic scenes.

 

'Don't you remember when he makes sure the couple are together before leaving?' she asks him with loomy eyes. 'I never forgot that. I can't believe I'll have my own tarmac scene!'

 

'Never watched it.' he replies between gritted teeth, noticing the driver weirdly ogled him through the rearview mirror. Anna gasps at the window.

'Here we are!'

The car slows down and he can already see Mycroft and Sherlock talking by the plane. The sight makes his heart play a _vibrato_ song, and he can feel cold sweat beginning to form in his brow. They finally stop and Anna immediately leaves the car, quite quick for her size, already smiling to Sherlock.

 

John comes after her, watching incredulous as they hug and talk absolute nonsense. He spots Mycroft regarding him in a way that resembled the driver, but he honestly couldn't care less at the moment. He hears Sherlock telling Mycroft this is probably their last conversation, and he can't suppress the painful sigh.

 

Enduring they talk about nothing is almost unbearable. They used to talk about nothing in particular at Baker Street, when their life was practically one. John doesn't want to hear him suggesting baby names. He doesn't want him saying the East wind or whatever that means is taking him because he's unworthy. The mention of Eastern Europe speeds up the rate in his chest (Serbia? Georgia?). Six months. John fears he will have a panic attack if he keeps looking at Sherlock.

 

'John, there's something… I should say;'

 

John looks up startled. Oh my god, no.

 

'I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have.'

 

"What are you doing, no, don't, stop it, stop right now" he thinks holding his breath.

 

'Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.'

 

"Please, please, please, I can't do this now, please"

 

Sherlock takes a look at him and John _sees_ the moment he understands, he gives up, he spares him because John can't stomach it, he's not brave enough and Sherlock is leaving to die in some bolthole of Europe. So Sherlock makes a joke and John laughs so he doesn't cry. He pushes the locked box at the top shelf to the back of his mind.

 

They shake hands, Sherlock making a point of being without his glove, which suddenly brings John back to the first day, when he gave Harry's phone to him, causing their hands to touch minimally, and all the sparkles that he felt on that moment.  
He goes to safe distance from the plane. Anna holds his hand triumphally, still smiling, and in comparison to Sherlock she's so repulsive to him, but he lets her, he goddamn lets her because that's what he and Sherlock planned, and he had thought they would be together for him to bear, and now he foresees miserable months as the plane takes off.

 

Mycroft speaks in an alarmed tone, which gathers John's attention. He finally releases himself from Anna, only to finds out Moriarty is back. Mycroft calls Sherlock, and John feels like someone removed a hard weight from his throat because the plane is _turning around and coming back_. He answers Anna remotely as she expresses apprehension towards the news, but the only thing in his mind is that _Sherlock is coming back._

 

He bolts in front of everyone to be the first to board. However, as soon as he sees Sherlock, John knows something is clearly wrong. First, he's pale as death, face sweaty. His eyes are closed and moving frantically behind his eyelids. He hears Anna and Mycroft coming on his heels. 'Sherlock?'

 

Mycroft joins him near the seat. He has that analytical face that always reminds John of the sanguine connection between the Holmes brothers. Sherlock opens his eyes abruptly and his pupils are _huge_. Mycroft murmurs 'Oh, Sherlock...'.

 

Sherlock babbles something about Emilia Ricoletti and how Moriarty died, but he's talking quickly, changing constantly the volume of his voice and not finishing his sentences, 

 

'You've been reading John's blog - the story of how you met.' Anna announces out of nowhere. Sherlock stops talking and looks at her with confused glassy eyes. John takes Sherlock's phone from her. 'Not right now, please.' he says to her, not waiting for her response.

 

'Did you make a list?' Mycroft asks Sherlock with a patience John has never seen before. Sherlock seems to want to say something, moving his mouth and looking around, and throws a paper haphazardly. John picks it up.

 

'He couldn't have taken all of that in the last five minutes.' he tells him in shock.

 

'He was high before he got on the plane.' Mycroft answers, looking exhausted.

 

'-eek al-ne na cell' Sherlock grumbles not paying attention to them. Mycroft looks up to him with raised eyebrows.

 

'Oh, I see.' Mycroft sighs, looking down. 'Being alone never did good to him. I made a mistake.'

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes back as another wave of the drug crosses his brain. He gets agitated, breathing laboured for a couple minutes. Then he stops, and appears to go down. It takes some moments before he opens his eyes. John approaches him. Sherlock regards him very softly, and his whole face smiles at him. 'Miss me?'

 

John's heart skips a beat. 'Sherlock? You all right?'

 

Suddenly Sherlock's is a whirlwind as usual, dismissing his health condition and talking about Moriarty and pardoning. He and Anna follow him out of the plane, but Mycroft stops him before he leaves.

 

'Look after him… please?'

 

John had been somewhat angry with Mycroft. But he looks at his worried and resigned face, and understands what he has been told all this time.

 

_I worry about him. Constantly._

 

 _I'll be always be there for him. But he doesn't want_ me.

 

He manages to nod. "I will try not to fuck this up. I promise." he thinks.

 

Sherlock and Anna are going to the car. He says Moriarty is back but obviously dead. He seems confident of himself, so John trusts him. In other circumstances he wouldn't be impeded of scolding him by his apparent guilty of overdosing, but he will save it for other opportunity. Anna and Sherlock discuss something about Emilia Ricoletti's case, which John still doesn't care, so he reclines in his seat, closing his eyes for a moment, coming down from the hysteric situation he just passed. 

 

Their voices dissipate as he enters his bungalow. He disregards the sofa facing the main cabinets and goes to his special one, always polished. He opens the bottom drawer, and there are the cigarettes, and the blue ball. He deposits a folded paper with a list alongside them.

 

The _Syringas_ smell impregnate the cabinet. He closes the door delicately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still 28/01 in your timezone? I'm posting this before 21h where I live.
> 
> Trivia facts from the chapter: about Syringa: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syringa#Symbolism
> 
> By the way, how do I put URLs in words here? The html confuses the hell out of me :'')
> 
> EDIT: Next chapter 10/02, due to extenuating circumstances. Hope to see you there!!!


	5. A Ruined Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They dance, they eat cake and they talk in strange places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No news under the sun, not betaed not britpicked not first language, any mistakes please point them out and explain!

The driver produces a plastic bag out of somewhere and Sherlock vomits in it immediately. Anna looks a bit weary, so John stumbles over her to change seats. He has another wave of nausea as the car turns a street and John tries to hold his fringe out of the way. Sherlock breathes heavily for a moment, trying to control the sickness. They stop at a traffic light, and the driver reaches behind him again, offering a water bottle. John takes it and gives it to Sherlock, who is now reclined against the window and holding the bag as far as he could.

 

Anna looks disgusted, frowning her nose. They reach Baker Street soon, thankfully. It crosses his mind to ask her to go home without him, but she's hot on his heels, so he leaves it be. Sherlock goes upstairs immediately, probably trying to conceal his state. Mrs. Hudson doesn't seem to be at home.

 

Sherlock refuges in the bathroom. Anna takes seat on the sofa, already scrolling down on her phone. John hovers between the sitting room and the kitchen, not really knowing what to do. He hears the shower turning on.

 

Suddenly his phone rings. The screen shows "Mycroft", which doesn't surprise him in the least. 'Took you all the ride back.' he says as he answers. Mycroft audibly rolls his eyes, if there's such a thing. 'Already John? Honestly. Put Sherlock on.'

 

'Why you didn't call him?'

 

_'He's not answering.'_

 

Of course he's not.

 

'Well, he's in the shower right now.'

 

_'I don't care. Put him on.'_

 

He glances at Anna, who's obviously paying attention to the conversation. He tries not to look guilty (of what?) and just goes to the loo, entering the room before he starts to have second thoughts about it. The curtain is opaque and dark, gratefully. When he closes the door behind him Sherlock pulls it a bit to check who is it. His hair is all slicked back, which is an interesting sight.

 

'Do you need something?' he asks confused.

 

'Mycroft wants to talk to you. You weren't answering your phone.' he responds as placidly as he could. Sherlock looks mixedly perplexed and annoyed, and pushes back the curtain to its place.

 

'Oh, for god's sake, he can't leave me alone for a _second_. Put him on speaker'

 

He does it. 'Mycroft, you're on speaker.'

 

_'Dear brother, my driver told me something very interesting about plastic bags. Do I need to be concerned?'_

 

'John, hung up on him.'

 

_'Don't, I'll just call again.'_

 

The shower turns off and Sherlock extends an arm for a towel. John tries not to sweat.

 

_'I'm doing what I can about your pardon. But it would be preferable if you stayed home until we sort this out.'_

 

'John, fetch me those pyjama trousers.' he complies, while Mycroft sighs. 'So basically I'm confined _again_ and nobody to supervise this time? I thought people learned from their mistakes.' he steps out still drying his hair and only in his trousers. John tries very hard not think how he's not wearing pants.

 

_'Please, think better of me Sherlock. I hope that while you're still unofficially free you plan your next actions towards the Moriarty issue.'_

 

Sherlock snorts and wraps the towel around his back, despite it being very humid and probably uncomfortable.

 

_'And… other things that need to be taken care of.'_

 

Then Sherlock just takes his phone from his hand and presses the "end call" button before giving it back.

 

'Well… that was annoying. The rest of my clothes is in my room.' he moves to leave the bathroom but John presses himself flat to the door. Sherlock steps back, brow furrowing.

 

John dry swallows twice, looking at everywhere but Sherlock.

 

'What you just said to Mycroft… not good you know.'

 

'What?' Sherlock asks with his voice subtly indicating the panic John is feeling.

 

'You know what. Insinuating relapse.'

 

'Controlled usage of drugs-'

 

'It's not about the drugs!' he interrupts angrily, now staring at Sherlock's face. 'It's the overdose!'

 

Sherlock visibly deflates, holding the towel firmly against his back. John obliges himself to keep looking at him, visual contact is important for him to _understand_.

 

'Listen… I know we don't talk about things like this. Ever. But-- but I need to be sure-' he inhales deeply, counting to five. 'When I came back to London I was… in a bad place. I'm sure you noticed but you left that out. Purposefully. On your first deductions. I was grateful because after it passed I was very ashamed of it.'

 

'So when you… when you jumped from Barts I kept thinking that I didn't see it. I didn't notice. Because I was so caught up in pretending we didn't have to talk, that you wouldn't need and in the end I couldn't retribute your help and I had _failed you_ -' he stops, breathing heavily. Sherlock looks utterly shocked, his mouth is even hanging open a bit, eyes as wide as they can be.

 

John favours from his silence and continues. 'I was so bloody angry that you had made me a fool that I refused to see, again, the signs you always show. And you were going to do it, weren't you? The Moriarty excuse, that was bullshit. Mycroft's face, you didn't get to see that. He _knew_.'

 

Sherlock finally avert his eyes, featuring so much vulnerability that John's heart clenches painfully.

 

'Sometimes...' he says in a very small voice, which is so uncharacteristic it makes everything worse. 'It crosses my mind. I suppose I delude myself until the point I… can't control anymore.'

 

'I understand.' John replies, keeping his voice from cracking. 'It seems stronger than a person. But...' he swallows and looks away. 'There's two of us to fight it. If you ever feel like that… just tell me. I'll be here. Always.'

 

They avoid each other's gaze some more. They hear some clacking noises and are reminded of Anna's presence in the living room.

 

'We are pretty fucked up, aren't we?' Sherlock affirms more than asks, a hint of smile in his voice. He's looking at John from under his eyelashes, head still bowed. John snorts unattractively at him, trying not to giggle.

 

'Sure we are.'

 

'And your wife is out there, probably wondering why we are taking so long inside a bathroom.'

 

They can't suppress the giggles now, but still try to keep it quiet.

 

'She will definitely talk, then.' John replies mischievously. Sherlock has a smile that mixes danger and fondness. 'People do little else.'

 

\-- * --

 

John has to police himself to not look stupid every time Sherlock texts him because, damn, he texts a lot. It actually reminds him of good old times when he would spend more time paying attention to his phone than his girlfriend. Jeanette absolutely _hated_ when he stopped whatever he was doing to send a message. Not that she told him that, but he had been in Afghanistan and he recognized a murder look when he saw one.

 

Not only Sherlock has started this all over again, but now Anna has been growing impatient with this old/new habit. She doesn't know it's old of course, by the time there were the three of them things were still strange in their friendship. 

 

They are not forgotten about her previous job - or better putting, her previous boss. So they can't really talk about Moriarty when she's around. When they left the bathroom the other day Anna looked very suspicious, which is alarming coming from her. He wanted to examine the hacker video with Sherlock, but he was adamant on not doing it. He guaranteed he was okay, and that Moriarty was dead, so they should go home.

 

Just before getting asleep he had received a message.

 

**Thank you.  
SH **

 

He replied **You're welcome** and slept thoroughly for the first time in days.

 

**If he doesn't want me to leave the flat he could at least provide me food.  
SH**

 

He laughs and just to work him up he goes to the fridge, takes a photo of the half lemon tart and sends to Sherlock. Seconds after he receives the answer.

 

**I hate you  
SH**

 

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective - only one in the world! - has a sweet tooth. He writes on a post-it "Buy some treats to Sherlock" and puts it on his agenda. Then he is taken aback by the date. Tomorrow would be January 6th.

 

'That bugger's birthday, I almost forgot' he murmurs to himself. He mostly ignores that Sherlock's from the eighties, because it's silly that he feels the detective is much younger when the difference isn't more than a few years. He gets self-conscious, which is not good if he wants… whatever he wants. It never helps that Sherlock shows a bunch of self-confidence.

 

"Not always." a distant voice inside his head tells him. "He is like that about his work and his abilities, but never about himself as a person, _au contraire_ you'd say."

 

Well then. He is going to celebrate for once. He's getting a proper birthday cake, maybe birthday hats! Perhaps he should call Molly and Greg?

 

Out of nowhere a violin song starts. He looks for the source and finds Anna adjusting her phone on the amplifier. He distinguishes the waltz Sherlock played on his wedding. Terrible, terrible night. Anna comes to him smiling with all her teeth, places his hand on her waist and holds the other one with her own. They start to move to the music, but not really in a natural way. It's been months and John absolutely forgot the steps, and furthermore Anna's belly is on the way.

 

'I'm not supposed to guide the dance, John.' she says still cheerful.

 

'I'm awful at dancing and you know it.' he replies trying not to step on her feet or bump into her. 'Why this all of a sudden?'

 

'You looked very content and I wanted to participate. It's our song after all. You danced quite well at the wedding.' she answers seeming to be enjoying herself very much, while he catches a grimace just in time.

 

'A waltz for John and Mary.' she states thoughtfully. 'Lovely of him. I still have the scores he left at the reception. Such a shame he is… like that.'

 

'Like what?' he retorts already a bit annoyed.

 

She shrugs. 'The way he is. He only needs to open his mouth to scare away someone with a romantic interest. It's funny to have a friend like that, but you know he's going to be the uncle bachelor forever.' she concludes chuckling as if the whole thing is very funny. John beg to differs.

 

'Can you imagine him with a date? It would be like a sitcom!' she's fully laughing now. 'Painting a moustache and pretending to be a waiter, that's hilarious!'

 

'Surely he's more perceptive than that.' he responds dryly.

 

'Oh god, definitely no! When I remember his lack of tact at that restaurant, oof!' she spasms as if revolted. 'Lucky for him he doesn't seem interested in romantic things. He's probably asexual too. Have you ever seen- ouch John!'

 

'Sorry.' he steps away from her, avoiding eye contact. 'Tired. I just remembered something in my email-' he leaves the room quickly before he starts yelling.

 

\-- * --

 

He escapes the next day. He stops by a supermarket and buys a cake that gives him diabetes only by looking, a packet of fancy biscuits and some birthday hats. In the way to Baker Street he meets Molly, who's bringing a mistrustful bag, so he doesn't ask. Greg is already at the door holding a small box. Mrs. Hudson opens the door for them.

 

'He was playing with strange things in the kitchen.' she whispers to them as they put the hats on. 'Here the candles, I'll go up first!'

 

They walk on tiptoes behind her. Sherlock apparently is still in the kitchen when she enters 221B. They hear her scolding him for making a mess at the table, Molly counts to three and they follow Mrs. Hudson into the flat, singing Happy Birthday.

 

John is absolutely delighted at Sherlock's shocked face when they appear, transforming to disbelief at the hats. Mrs. Hudson manages to put one on him, and John trusted Greg to be filming the whole event in his phone. Sherlock's exasperation is betrayed by the gleam in his eyes when he sees the cake, but everyone lets him think he's fooling them.

 

It's a very pleasant afternoon. Sherlock eats three slices of cake when he thinks John isn't watching. He and Molly talk animatedly over the failed spleen of a teenager she had brought, and later he, Greg and Mrs. Hudson chew some turkish tobacco in silent, much to John's aggravation. Sherlock, despite himself, seems to have fun, which was the goal so John is very satisfied.

 

Eventually Molly and Greg have to leave and Mrs. Hudson claims there's something on telly she's been waiting the whole week. They lit a fire and seat at their chairs, enjoying the produced heat amidst January's coldness. John realises it's the first time they are properly alone since before Christmas, which is not that long ago but so much happened during that period that it feels like ages.

 

'I hope you're not expecting me to reciprocate in your birthday.' Sherlock alerts suddenly, looking very relaxed and still smelling like tobacco.

 

'Christ, you better not.' he says and they giggle together. 'Besides, Molly and Greg are more friends of yours than mine, it would be awkward as hell. Or the stag night all over again.'

 

'People get it wrong.' Sherlock replies smiling at him. 'You make it appears you're the social one, but you don't even have friends!'

 

John guffaws at that. 'Well, it seems I just got one.'

 

Sherlock softens at this, and it's such a good look John could stare at him forever. 'You shouldn't be home late.'

 

John groans. 'I question myself everyday if all this is worth and then I feel guilty for doing it, and then angry that I can't feel comfortable and-'

 

"And I don't know how I will reconcile you and a child on my own." but he doesn't say aloud.

 

Sherlock looks a bit uneasy himself. 'I have no idea what to say, to be honest. Perhaps you could go back to your therapist?' he suggests tentatively.

 

John considers for a moment. 'This actually sounds good. I think I'll give it a try.'

 

They relish in the companionable silence while they can until John gives up procrastinating and goes home with a heavy heart. When he is near his destiny his phone chimes with a text. He's ready for Sherlock's randomness, but it's an image from Greg. It's a photo from this afternoon, John and Sherlock with their comic birthday hats, each one in a side of the room apparently talking to other people but they are in fact looking at each other.

 

It looks so intimate, so fond, that he turns off the screen with his heart hammering against his chest. He arrives home, takes a shower and changes into pyjamas. Anna is reading a book already in bed. He slides beside her and they both set to sleep.

 

John wonders "what did I see in her?" until he drifts off.

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY. But as I said on tumblr, people making my life difficult at work. I hope it doesn't happen again.
> 
> What are you thinking about this? You can comment, or talk to me on tumblr! I'd love that! username thanks-mike-stamford
> 
> Next chapter at 18/02/16! Hope to see you guys here again :)


	6. A whole other limp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange visitors and a frustrated attempt of functioning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed no britpicked not first language. Feel free to correct something wrong, but please explain!

'Your blog is abandoned again.' Ella says in that familiar tone that is impossible to decipher.

 

John looks at her in silence. Ella looks back. 

 

He feels stupid because he was the one who called and made an appointment. He should just _tell_ her what is bothering him, but like every time he talks to Ella, he finds out he doesn't appreciate sharing what he feels.

 

'There were two occasions you didn't update your blog.' she continues, still trying to take something out of him. 'First, when you didn't have anything to talk about, and second, when you were in a bad moment of your life. Is any of this happening right now?'

 

Being terribly specific makes it hard to evade a question, he supposes she knows exactly what she's doing.

 

'Ahn, the second.' he answers awkwardly. They look at each other some more.

 

'Last time you were here you said you were going to propose to your girlfriend. Also, your friend came back, which was quite surprising by the way, but you seemed very content. And the last post was about your wedding day.' she says with a knowing look. He flexes his hands. 'Is this about your marriage?' she finishes.

 

He swallows. 'Yes.'

 

She makes a note. 'Please, elaborate.'

 

He realises too late that it will be hard explaining his situation without the sensitive details he can't unravel to her without putting her in danger. So he decides for a more abstract approach.

 

'Ann-Mary. She is not who I thought. She is a completely different person and I only disclosed her a month into our marriage. She...' he searches for a proper word. 'lied and lied and lied. In huge proportions. I told her I had forgiven her but I can't. This will never work.'

 

'Are you still living with her?'

 

'Yes.'

 

'Have you considered getting a divorce?'

 

'She's pregnant.'

 

Ella raises her eyebrows at him, but she doesn't look impressed. 'Pregnancy doesn't stop you from ending a marriage. Do you think the child will help to straighten your relationship up?'

 

'Of course I don't.' he gets defensive. 'I'm afraid she will run away with my daughter if we divorce!'

 

'Why do you believe in that?' she asks looking curious now.

 

How can he respond without revealing? The day Sherlock escaped the hospital comes to his mind. 'She made it clear that she would do anything to secure what she wanted.'

 

'And you want to stay with your daughter.'

 

There's a pause. He is sure Ella has already picked up for change in posture and expression.

 

'Of course I want to.'

 

'Why?'

 

'What do you mean why?'

 

'Why you want to stay with your daughter, John.'

 

'Because… she's my daughter.' he says wishing he hadn't hinted doubt at his answer.

 

'So you're doing this out of a sense of obligation?'

 

'Ok, what are you implying?' he inquires more sharply than he intended.

 

'I'm not implying anything.' she answers impassively. 'But John, it's completely normal that you haven't evolved emotional attachment to your daughter yet. It's ok to take decisions based on obligation right now. I'm sure that given time you'll get around this feelings.'

 

He blinks at her. 'That's… good. It's good. I--ok.'

 

She writes for a moment on her form. 'Are you engaging in the preparation activities?'

 

'Ahn.'

 

'I think it could help. Choosing furniture for the nursery, her little clothes, this kind of silly things make what is only an idea now into a concrete prospect.'

 

He contemplates this and perceives she's probably right. 'I'll try that.'

 

'You still look uneasy, though.' Ella remarks.

 

John doesn't answer, because he's still turning over something he doesn't know how to put in words.

 

'You're worried about your performance as a father? Or unsure about how to adapt to a new lifestyle perhaps? Something else?'

 

For someone who thought he feared the war all those years ago, she seems to have improved a lot in her job in the meantime.

 

'The second.'

 

'What is it you're insecure about?'

 

He looks away. She keeps watching him. Silence stretches.

 

'John, I don't want to press you, but your hour is almost up. Surely we can talk about this another day, but I'd like to understand what you're feeling.'

 

He looks back at her. 'There are some… things. That I don't have the courage to say aloud to myself. I haven't processed them yet. And I don't know anyone who could, I don't know, properly talk to.'

 

'Many time writing is a way to express what you can't manage to say. That's why I suggested a blog when you first came to me.' 

 

He sighs. 'My blog is too public now. It would be like screaming to the whole country.'

 

'Make another one.' she retorts simply. 'Don't put your name on it. Anonymity is very effective on dismantling social barriers. Nobody will know it's you and perhaps you'll meet people with the same problems. Could be a blog, or a forum, an online journal, it's really up to you. Think about it.'

 

\-- * --

 

He enters his living room to find Anna having tea with someone. It's an indian woman with boyish hair. She puts her cup on the coffee table and gets up to greet him.

 

'You must be John Watson. Really nice to meet you! I'm Aadhya. Mary's old friend.' she smiles politely at him while they shake hands. 'I was _so_ sorry I couldn't be here for the wedding. Out of the country.'

 

'Ahn, that's okay. At least you didn't have to put up with attempted murder.' he tries for a whimsical attitude. Anna smiles dryly and Aadhya sparkles with something he can't put his finger on it.

 

'That must have been very entertaining. Well, unfortunately I gotta go, but Mary, lovely?' she calls out, purse in hand. 'Let's keep talking now I'm in England again. Bye-bye! And you too, John!'

 

He sees her out. Anna is cleaning the coffee table when he comes back. She seems a bit stiff, and he wonders if he should ask. The woman had said she was an old friend, and she couldn't come to the wedding because she had been abroad. But he doesn't remember they discussing this friend, ever. She hadn't sent a telegram (Sherlock didn't read aloud most of them on the reception, but John did take them from him to read later). Anna haven't looked happy in any moment.

 

Of course she was an old acquaintance of work, if they really know each other long as Aadhya had said. Instead of querying Anna as he wanted he decides for texting Sherlock discreetly. 

 

**Do you know any Aadhya from Anna's past? She was here today.  
JW**

**The name rings a bell distantly. I'll check with Mycroft. Are you okay?  
SH**

**Yeah, just had a bad feeling about this.  
JW**

**Don't worry, I'll investigate. Delete these messages.  
SH**

 

He does it before following Anna to the kitchen. She is putting away the dishes.

 

'Mary, don't you think we should start buying things for the nursery? The closer it gets to the due date it will be harder to find an opportunity'

 

She looks at him weirdly startled, and rummages around the kitchen as if pursuing for something to do. 'Yeah, I suppose.'

 

He frowns at her reticence, but attributes to the visit she just had, which increase his suspicions. 'You said you wanted an unique name for her. Have you thought about something?'

 

She settles for baking apparently, as she gets flour, butter and eggs and put on the counter. 'Well...' she says considering. 'I did some research. I quite liked Skyler.'

 

'Skyler sounds nice.' he agrees with her.

 

He watches her bake a bread while navigating on his phone. Why nursery for girls have to be all pink? He decides to invest in other colours. Everything is more expensive than he anticipated, which makes him regret not starting to buy sooner. They don't have absolutely anything! He has been in denial about the parenting situation, but Anna had months to think about what they needed. Why she hadn't contacted him? Of course, she probably didn't think he was coming back to her at all before the christmas call, but he still had responsibility with the child.

 

Pondering these questions reinforce the impression he has that Anna would run away with his daughter. He didn't intervene when he was living with Sherlock and she also left him out. It seems she was neglecting the preparations, but she could be preparing somewhere else. He needs to talk to Sherlock about the next steps of their plan.

 

They soon eat the bread, tasteful as always. After that they watch a movie on telly, and when it's finished they take their showers, separately, and he shaves before joining her on the bed. It's evocative of their time before Sherlock came back from the dead. John's stomach sinks a bit as he feels the familiarity because he knows what always came next in the old days.

 

She holds his face and presses their lips together, lightly at first then pushing her tongue between the seam. _Skyler_ comes up behind his eyes. He tries to control the bile that creeps up his throat and kisses her back. It's been months. She lifts the hem of her t-shirt just enough and guides one his hands to her breasts, and the other one inside her pyjama trousers.

 

After making her instructions clear Anna fondles him and it starts to work. She moans softly in his mouth. She turns around to present her back to John, which is a better position with her belly. He grips her waist and lower her trousers. They move a bit. John stops to take himself in hand, and tries again, to no avail. Anna turns again to attempt herself, but John soon gives up and lies back on the bad. Anna sits up.

 

'Really, again? What is it?' she asks piercingly.

 

'I don't know.' he answers between gritted teeth, averting from her gaze.

 

'So it's my fault?'

 

'I said I _don't know_. I'm going to sleep now.

 

'For god's sake.' she reclines again, her back to him. He huffs angrily and does the same.

 

\-- * --

 

Anna has never been one for storming off or yell during a discussion. This is mostly John's department. He doesn't know if this a true characteristic or just part of her Mary Morstan persona. It doesn't matter, he knows better now. She's been acting as she always had, except John is not blind to her anymore. How he never realised she Is textbook manipulative is beyond him.

 

'Perhaps it's the belly. I understand that. I can barely move around.' she says passively from the bed, while he gets ready for work. 

 

He sighs 'It's not that. I'm not repulsed by your… body.' he hopes she hasn't heard his delay.

 

'Then is it so awful with me? Because it's far from the first time. And you didn't seem stressed or worried the whole night, so don't use this excuse.' her voice is very light, and she doesn't sound angry or sad as he expects from someone in this kind of conversation.

 

'Mary.' he stops combing his hair to regard the ceiling for a moment, praying for patience. 'Stop being dramatic, there's nothing awful in it. Sometimes I can't concentrate.' he sits on the foot of the bed to tie his shoes.

 

'Well, I wouldn't be dramatic if you explained to me. But you never say anything _ever_. I just want to understand!'

 

He benefits from his position with his back to her to roll his eyes.

 

'I'm sorry. I'll try not to be so brusque next time.'

 

'Well, I hope there isn't a next time of that.' she responds, insinuative. 'Are you going to Sherlock's today?'

 

'Yeah, after work.'

 

'You're coming back for dinner, right?'

 

He hadn't intended to, but he gathers from her tone that he would be in trouble if he didn't. 'Yeah, sure.' he gets up and she smiles at him.

 

'Till tonight!' 

 

Now that he's living with Anna again, he can't stop comparing to life in 221B. Sherlock could be a very unnerving person when he wanted to. But save the occasions he wants to drug John, he is very obvious about it. With Anna is like there's a secret agenda always dictating their interactions, one that she wants accomplished but won't make it transparent. Some of their conversations are actually cringeworthy when he review them. She played with him since the very beginning.

 

Likewise, the clinic doesn't make him comfortable anymore. He had resumed working after he moving out from Baker Street. He had needed fresh air, talk to different people. No one asked him about Sherlock there. It had restored him a bit. But now the place reeks of _Mary Morstan_. How's Mary? When the baby's due? We miss her so much! Subsequently of Anna leaving the country to not come back he would quit this job.

 

At lunchtime break he considers Ella's suggestion. He googles on his computer and finds some websites that offer a private journal. The idea is discarded soon, because he'd have to be very open about himself, and he'd be withholding his feelings, which doesn't help his situation. He needs an expiatory.

 

He opts for a side-blog. He chooses a different domain from his main one, and sets it up around eating his sandwich. He calls himself Scott in the profile. He proceeds to erase all the activity from the browser's history before going back to work.

 

Between patients he receives a text.

 

**If Aadhya stops by again tell me immediately.  
SH**

**What happened? Who is she?  
JW**

**Not on the phone. Delete.  
SH**

 

\-- * --

 

_**The memoirs of Scott** _

_I'm going to have a daughter soon. Her mother is pretty shit though. Dangerous shit. Is it bad that I want to separate them? Would you want your daughter to grown up visiting your mother in jail? Knowing she would play victim, spiral you in a guilty trip. Because that's what she does. She does bad things to people, in a variety of means._

_I actually don't care about her mother. But if I want to stay with my daughter shouldn't I love her? I can't even imagine myself with a child. I don't want to think about adjusting my life to a child. Not because of her, but the people I'd lose if I stay with her. Of course I'm doing this out of obligation. Am I too selfish?_

_**Comments** _

_RHY  
how about you decide who you want to stay with after all_

_FALLEN-DREAMS  
perhaps find someone to adopt her? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry John jdsngsnfnsk not sorry for any pun, tho!
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr, username thanks-mike-stamford
> 
> Next update 25/02! See ya!


	7. A dish best served cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth about Moriarty is uncovered and some precautions are taken. While that, Anna has another course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language, and very late.

John goes straight to Baker Street following the end of his shift. Sherlock is standing on the sofa (although his feet are bare, thankfully) pinning photos and post-its in a complicated web on the wall. Getting closer he notices a clipping from The Sun with Moriarty on the day of his trial. It's in the center of the web, which is expected, but connected by a line, also in the center, is a somewhat blurred picture of Aadhya.

 

She looks a few years younger, but she has the same haircut. The photo seems to be from a CCTV screenshot. There's a yellow post-it glued next to it, reading _Dual citizenship - lives in England since teenager | computer science at Essex | leads firearms trafficking | professional sniper | worked for M with AGRA_. John boggles at wall. The woman had been in his house drinking tea, for god's sake!

 

He watches Sherlock fixing more photos at the end of a line connected to Aadhya. A blond woman with East Europe features. Twin black guys. A bald dude with many tattoos that strikes John as very familiar, until he remembers he was the one talking to Mrs. Hudson the day Sherlock jumped, when John thought she had been shot. A slim young man he's sure he saw in Greg's department before. An asian girl who he swears is a kid and two other unremarkable blokes.

 

The very last is a picture he knows by heart, of Anna-Greta with longer hair, still not bleached, from the file Mycroft had landed during Sherlock's duration in the hospital. 'Oh.' is all he contrives.

 

'Yes.' Sherlock concurs. 'Fetch me the red marker over there.'

 

He passes it up to him, who proceeds to cross some faces. 'Those are the ones dead?'

 

'Not exactly.' Sherlock answers. 'This one - Viktoria Tereshchenko. She died by accident in the Ukrainian conflicts happening in the last years. Mycroft can tell you more about those. Thomas Barnett, Bill Cooper and Rob Jones were caught by Mycroft's people the day I jumped from Bart's. The ones assigned to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.' he addresses him. 

 

'Ginésio Fernandes de Sá killed a man in a fist-fight in a pub a year ago and was deported to Guiné-Bissau, but his brother Flaviano has unknown whereabouts. Michael Morris is in trial for months now in the US, but Mycroft fears he'll manage to get away. He's doing what he can along CIA. Both Park Hyojeong and Aadhya Jhaveri are wanted by Interpol. It surprises me she told you her real name.'

 

'Perhaps she thinks Anna covered her past? So she doesn't need to worry?' John suggests, still flabbergasted at the pictures in front of him. All those people probably held him at gunpoint in some moment of the past. Moriarty's special snipers team.

 

'Sounds plausible. But what actually troubled me when you texted was that she made a point of visiting her and informing she's back in England.'

 

'What, do you think she's blackmailing Anna?'

 

'No, John.' Sherlock finally turning from the wall, looking very serious. 'I think she's trying to summon her up.'

 

John blinks at him. 'Summon up to what? To arms trafficking?'

 

John sees him biting an acid answer. 'Remember I said Moriarty is dead, but he's back? Because his position as a crime lord is still vacant after all these years. And Aadhya is back in England. Talking to people she knew, dangerous individuals living in the country. A woman who never changed her name and yet never got caught. Pretty damn smart with computers and guns.'

 

'Oh my god,' John exclaims. 'she's Moriarty! She's the one who put that video everywhere.'

 

'That's it. Notwithstanding, I can't prove it. Luckily for me, she has many flaws in her plan. First, she doesn't have the bargaining power Moriarty had. Or at least, not yet. Second, Moriarty commanded everything but he didn't get his hands dirty. I think the only crime he actually committed himself was the murder of Carl Powers. The combo of these circumstances was what made him so slippery. Aadhya, otherwise, came from below. Shouldn't be difficult to find something on her.'

 

'But I don't understand the purpose of the video at all.' he replies, confused. 'Why get attention like that when she could be working underground?'

 

'To perpetuate the myth.' Sherlock says with a shrug. 'To announce someone got the crown. She needs contacts. That explains her visit to Anna.'

 

'When we finally got rid of a problem another comes.' he says while falling on the sofa. Sherlock comes to sit next to him.

 

'I wouldn't dwell much about that. I don't believe she wants to come back to that life. The whole Magnussen affair was her way to prevent the information to spread out. Besides, she usually worked on camp, what would she do while heavily pregnant?'

 

'Yeah, I suppose. So now you and Mycroft will search for evidence on Aadhya?'

 

'Basically, yes, before she restores the criminal organization in London.'

 

'What do I do if she keeps coming to my house?'

 

'That's the problem.' he complains. 'I definitely don't want her doing that. Mycroft already put surveillance there and in the nearby. At the same time we can't warn Anna without disclosing we know about her past with Moriarty. We have to watch her closely.' he then jumps from the sofa. 'And I have lots of files you'd like to see. Such a nasty criminal! Check this!'

 

John grins and follows him.

 

\-- * --

 

**I'm free!  
SH**

**You got the pardon?????  
JW**

**Sort of. I can leave the flat, but not London until Moriarty is captured.  
SH**

**There is no Moriarty.  
JW**

**Technically there is, if you consider it a title not a name.  
SH**

**Then go get her, consulting detective.  
JW**

 

The moment he hits _Send_ he regrets it. It sounds awfully like flirting. Fortunately he has an excuse to delete all his messages. He wants to investigate with Sherlock but he is afraid Anna will find out the ongoings and it would ruin everything. So he sits back and waits for Sherlock and Mycroft to finish. He wishes he had his gun, but the last time he saw it had been in Appledore. Truth to be told, he's not sure he would trust a firearm inside his house.

 

He knows for sure Anna didn't have the pistol and the assassin garb with her, because he helped her to unpack when they moved in together. That he has no idea where she could have access to them is a bit frightening. It's fundamental he keeps an eye on her until Aadhya is out of the game.

 

'They conceded Sherlock's provisory freedom.' he informs her while she is putting away some clothes for donation.

 

‘Oh, that’s great!’ she asserts enthusiastically while folding a t-shirt that has grown small on her, even before the pregnancy. He remembers it, she used on their first morning after, only in her panties, while frying eggs. 'So what about Moriarty?'

 

Her tone is apparently innocent but he knows better. 'Well, the video was a terrible joke from petty hackers. The man is dead, definitely. Sherlock said Mycroft is working on getting them on jail, and Sherlock has permission to investigate in London. Soon he will be exonerated, which is just a formality now.'

 

'I see.' she replies not giving away anything. 'I told you big brother would solve everything. Oh!'

 

He starts at her epiphany. 'What?'

 

'Remember I suggested a dinner to thank him? This is a perfect opportunity! A celebration dinner! Tomorrow night, what do you think?'

 

'Ahn.' John pauses. He hadn't taken really seriously her proposal, and he's not sure is a good idea. But then, it could be a good way to check her over. And Sherlock is a far better actor than himself. 'Ok. I'll invite him. Do you need me to buy something?'

 

'No, I'll go by the supermarket myself. Need to stretch my legs!'

 

He doesn't exactly approve this but complies anyway.

 

\-- * --

 

Sherlock looks a bit awkward but he is feigning well. John knows by heart how he looks like when he's uncomfortable, which usually happens in social gatherings. Anna comes to greet him with the regular hug and a huge smile that doesn't sit well on John. She's wearing a large black cardigan over her shirt, strange because their heater is working fairly well, but he doesn't comment. She also put some make-up on.

 

'Oh look at you! Much better than vomiting in a plastic bag, isn't it?' she says while John bites his tongue. 

 

'We can't always be on top.' Sherlock replies smoothly.

 

'Sure.' she smiles at him. 'Come on, dinner is ready.'

 

Sherlock sits and of course doesn't even offer help to put the table. John organizes the plates and the potatoes dish. Green beans are already in place when he sees Anna bringing a casserole with Shepherd's pie. Sherlock absolutely hates Shepherd's pie. John looks at him. He's sporting an acute poker face. 

 

'I'll serve you boys, come on John, sit.'

 

She starts with the veggies, and then the pie. She places a generous amount in Sherlock's plate, which John is not even considering being accidental anymore. She prepared this to purposefully torment him. Sherlock gazes his plate defeatedly and pokes a single green bean with his fork. John discreetly mouths 'Just pretend.' to him. They start to eat and John contemplates if it's possible to sneak Sherlock's food into his own plate without her noticing.

 

'So Sherlock,' she initiates the conversation, seeming unaware of the general wariness in the air. 'You're free to come and go now. Any plans? Open your website inbox again for criminals?'

 

John cuts a potato in four parts.

 

'Despite the professional content of my website, and myself being the detective in charge, the interesting crimes are usually sent to John's blog.' he says around a mouthful of potatoes. 

 

'Oh but John soon won't have the chance.' she replies with condescendence. 'Newborn children take a lot of time. Children in general.' 

 

Sherlock pauses for a moment to stare at her and she smiles at him. John downs the wine through his throat. Sherlock puts a forkful of the pie in his mouth and chews with difficulty.

 

'I prefer fish to be honest.' she continues. 'But John loves Shepherd's pie. Love is about compromising to your spouse sometimes.'

 

'Sure.' Sherlock answers dryly after a huge swallow. John refills his own glass because apparently it's going to be a long night.

 

They resume eating for a few moments. 'Talking about love...' Anna starts again, and John refrains from closing his eyes in pain. 'What about you, Sherlock?'

 

Sherlock's eyes are wide as saucers. 'What about me?'

 

'Tell me about your love life. Bet you have some wild affairs to recount!' she says mischievously. John wants to bang his head on the table.

 

'I don't have a love life, much less wild affairs.' he replies between gritted teeth. John aggressively drinks wine.

 

'Well, I don't believe you.'

 

He blinks at her. 'I'm sorry?'

 

'You see Sherlock,' she straightens on the chair. 'Having a love life doesn't always mean having a boyfriend.' John perks up to the fact that she doesn't add "or a girlfriend". 'Because sometimes it just doesn't work! You could love a person and they could be unattainable. It would be a sad love story, but still.'

 

They both gawk at her in reticence. John peers quickly at him, who seems very pale. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it since nothing comes out. Silence stretches. John decides to take some action.

 

'Mary, the girls at the clinic sent their love. Dolores said she will send some cupcakes any day.'

 

'That's very kind of her, love.' she answers. Sherlock flinches minutely and bites more pie. Oh, you know what I just remembered? In the plane Sherlock, before overdosing, you were reading John's first post about you, weren't you?'

 

John cuts a green pea with more force than he calculated, the knife resonating loudly against the plate.

 

'I was scrolling down his blog.' Sherlock answers with the small voice John _hates_ , not looking up from his meal.

 

'I found very cute.' she tells him. 'But as you said in your best man speech, John is quite romantic in his blog. He said that our wedding was the best day of his life, isn't this lovely?' she beams at John, who smiles back but feeling more like his mouth is spasming, and begs for her not to notice. Sherlock keeps his gaze down. She turns back to him. 'And you were great as best man. Perhaps you could be the godfather of our daughter, what do you think?'

 

John almost chokes on wine. Sherlock does something strange with his mouth.

 

'I'll get dessert.' she announces. They remain quiet until she comes back with… rice pudding.

 

At least Sherlock tolerates rice pudding, but for him if it doesn't involve a dentist being disturbed it is a disappointing dessert. John sighs.

 

'I want to to go back to the clinic after my maternity leave finishes.' Anna just _carries on talking_. 'We will have to take turns to be at home until she has enough age to go to a nursery.'

 

'Sure.' he answers messing with his pudding. Sherlock is eating frenziedly.

 

'We thought Skyler was a good name. What do you think Sherlock?'

 

'Sounds nice.' he replies quickly, cleaning his bowl. 'I have to go. Just remembered I left a toxic compound in the counter. Mrs. Hudson could get hurt.' he stands up.

 

John deflates, Anna raises her eyebrows but doesn't seem surprised. 'So soon? We didn't even have coffee!'

 

'Yeah, sorry. Lovely dinner!' he's speaking in the manner he reserves for obstructive clients. John and Anna get up too.

 

'I'll see him to the door and come to help you.' he says to impede her from coming along. She starts to pick the remaining plates.

 

He is already crossing the doorstep when John reaches the living room, back to the inside of the house. He is buttoning his coat against the moderate chilly wind. John closes the door delicately behind him and waits for him to finish and wrap his scarf in his neck. 'I'm sorry for that.'

 

'Not a problem.' Sherlock answers, but when he turns to John he looks on the verge of tears. 'I'll tell you when we have conclusive results in the investigation.'

 

"Don't let him go like that" a voice deep in his mind murmurs. "Don't let this night be a complete disaster."

 

'Please do.' he answers. Then he builds courage out of whatever, goes up on tiptoes and kisses Sherlock's cheek. When he draws back to his feet the detective's face is painted in a violent shade of red. He looks to the pavement. 'Good-night.'

 

He hears a whisper of good-night from Sherlock and after that his steps growing distant. When John finally looks up he is already turning a street corner in the main road's path, probably to take a cab. He revolves to get back inside when a movement catches his attention.

 

Anna is observing him from a window. She's not smiling.

 

\-- * --

 

There's a drawer in the special cabinet John keeps in his mind bungalow that he detests to open. This time, however, when he once again crosses the room directly to the corner ignoring the sofa, he pulls it wide. Inside a handkerchief stained with blood and an envelope signed "to Dr. and Mrs. Watson" in fancy handwriting stand out among other things. Just beside them the deposits a paper card that resembles a print screen from a message app that reads "Dinner here, wednesday 19 pm".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (again) guyssss!!!!
> 
> Long story short. I moved out from my family home, because I'm taking a master degree in another state. So the last two weeks were very busy, I should have anticipated. Btw, since my classes started already I'll be posting the chapters on weekends from now on! Hope you haven't given up on me? #oops
> 
> Till next weekend everybody, enjoy the pining!


	8. No signal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has some troubles in paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language, any mistakes feel free to point out (and explain please).

_**Memoirs of Scott** _

_How are we supposed to know how a person is? How do we know when they are not being real, or when we got them wrong?_

_My wife not only lied about who she was, but also about who she is. I didn't forgive her about her actions, but if I had, I would be rethinking this decision right now. She is showing her hand. Would any of you live with a bully? A spouse who abuses others with a sweet smile on their face? Someone who can't take when things don't go the way they wanted so they act badly and after justify themselves with love or sadness? I learned that people who act by love don't usually use this excuse. They just give you what you wanted. Acting by selfishness on the other way…_

_And my friend. I got them wrong. So, so wrong, after all these years. How they pretend to not care because they care so much. I misjudged so many times and I keep doing it and I wonder if all the time I wasn't only refusing to see because it was so obvious I didn't want to believe. But I don't know how to talk to them. I don't know how to protect them, now I know they need protection. I don't know if they would LET me protect them._

_I don't even know what I should feel, but that is not news._

_I made a mess and now my life is hell._

_**Comments** _

_LIZZIE  
I had an abusive girlfriend for years and I only realised after I met an incredible girl who showed me better._

_DRAGON-AGE  
mate you're in a shit i feel better about myself now_

_RHY  
DIVORCE HER!!!!!!_

_GOD SAVE QUEEN BEY  
I have this feeling that you could solve all your problems by you know TALKING to people_

_APPLEMANIAC_  
Hey, is your friend a bloke? Because I have this friend… I don't know, I think I have feelings for him. But I never, you know, with a guy. But I really want to, you know, with him. I also don't know if he is gay, but I've never seen him with a bird. Can I email you?  
|  
\- reply to APPLEMANIAC - JOSH  
I strongly recommend the activity. Go bang your friend. 

 

\-- * --

 

'Aren't you going to say sorry?' Anna asks over breakfast.

 

John stops bringing a piece of toast to his mouth and wonders if eating now means discussion. He puts it back on his plate.

 

'About what?'

 

She looks at him in awe. 'What you mean, "about what"? Don't play dumb with me John Watson. You disrespecting me!' she answers with an already rising voice.

 

'I disrespected you?' he questions taking her bait: he's getting sullen as well. 'Care to tell me how?'

 

'That's the problem.' she snorts at him. 'You don't even realise there's an issue here! It's always been like that. Ok, ' she raises her hands 'I'll give in for you. I'll explain. You cannot forget I am your wife. The mother of your daughter. I am your priority. So think about my feelings before doing potential harmful things for everyone.'

 

'I still don't understand, could you be a little more specific?' he demands between gritted teeth.

 

'You and Sherlock! How can this be about something else? It's always him, isn't it?'

 

"Apparently yes." he thinks sourly. 'What is bothering you? That I spend time with him? He's my best friend! You even told me to spend time with him!'

 

'I know what I said! That was then, and this is now! I don't mind you spending time with him, but it _hurts_ to know I'm below him in your concern ranking!' she bangs her hand forcefully against the table surface. John urges himself to stay calm when in fact he's a bit disturbed.

 

'I don't have a concern ranking, Mary! Why are you angry? You've never been like that!'

 

'Well, **you** have never been like that before.' she says punctuating her words with acidity. 'I tolerated your "mimimi" ' she does the quote marks in the air. 'when we dated because he was **dead** but if he's threatening our family--'

 

'Wait, wait, hold on!' he interrupts abruptly. 'What the hell are you talking about? What threat?'

 

'About him wanting things he can't have! You're married now. I've ignored his kicked puppy faces because you were ignoring too, but if you're going to encourage him I have to step in.'

 

His heart is hammering violently against his chest. A slight tremor starts creeping up his hand, which he closes in a fist. 'I'm not encouraging whatever you think there is. He saved this, do you remember? He sacrificed himself for us.'

 

'Oh, for god's sake!' she spits at him. 'He was never in real danger. Mycroft Holmes had everything in his pocket agenda.'

 

'You don't know that!' he retorts scandalized. 'It was pure luck and timing! And we wouldn't be here if it weren't for him!'

 

'I _know_ John.' she replies softer this time, which makes him blink, confused. 'I'm grateful. But Sherlock needs to know it's time to pull back now. Let us live our lives and go pursue his own. He can be like any other friend, commenting our posts on facebook and visit from time to time, but _he is not a part of this family_. And you are letting him think he is. When you try to avoid making him get back to reality it affects me as well.'

 

'I don't know what do you want me to do.' he tells her defeatedly.

 

'Just treat him like before. He's slow but not stupid, he'll get it eventually.'

 

\-- * --

 

He concludes it was very moronic of him to have not foreseen this. Anna took the decision to shoot Sherlock because she thought it was enough to prevent John discovering the truth about her. First option, Sherlock dies and can't say a word anymore. Second option, Sherlock is traumatized and afraid and keeps his mouth shut. To be honest it was a good strategy - for a bloody psychopath. It served to show, though, that she is a mentally unstable person with no qualms to go extreme to protect her wishes.

 

She wanted him to stay with her, and him knowing the truth wasn't the sole peril to this. He didn't leave, granted, but something could still take him away from her. In her logic: Sherlock. Again.

 

It makes sense now her taking care of telling him bad things, being all content about the mission in East Europe, making up a dinner just to pick Sherlock's weak spots and intimidate him. She had been jealous. She even used the word "threat", which wasn't at all a good sign for a trigger happy person. Only the fact she went hysteric at breakfast gives him bad chills, since it's a whole new side of her John is getting to experience. 

 

He hates walking on eggshells because he's awful at it.

 

And yet what she said about him ignoring "Sherlock's kicked puppy faces" - and he shudders from the expression - is making him uncomfortable. Has he been doing that? Has Sherlock been so readable to everyone but him? John has been cruel to him all this time?

 

He comes home directly from the clinic since Sherlock told him he wouldn't be at 221B. He hadn't add much to that, which makes John a bit annoyed. Anna is rearranging a portrait when he arrives but comes close to him and sniffs his shoulder. He jumps back, perplexed. 'Did you just _smelled_ me?'.

 

'You said you would be home early.' she crosses her arms and moves to stand in front of him. 

 

He glances at his watch. 'I _am_ home early.'

 

'Nope. You took half an hour more than the usual time to arrive. Were you doing something else?'

 

'Waiting for Dolores' cupcakes!' He replies bewildered, raising the bag the nurse had put them in for him to carry in the bike. Anna regards him for a moment before getting the bag and going to the kitchen. He makes a point of looking around as if waiting for a sudden answer to pop out from under the furniture.

 

Dinner is a bizarre affair in all aspects. First, Anna is behaving like nothing ever happened. She's all sweet smiles and bold looks and easy conversation, like back when they were dating. But the cherry in the pie is when she reclines a bit in her seat to consider him. 'You never ask about me.' She affirms with wonder.

 

'What do you mean?'

 

'About my life before.'

 

He pauses and frowns. Definitely thin ice now. 'I thought you didn't want me to.' he says slowly.

 

'I lived in many countries, you know?' she puts her elbows on the table and supports her chin on her hands. 'I have many stories to tell. You could just ask.'

 

'Ahn.' he turns this over but can't make his mind about her intentions. 'Ok. Good.'

 

'Come on. What would interest you more? I've spent a few months in Indonesia some years ago! Bet you'd like that!'

 

"Using what name and killing whom?" he reflects. 'Nice. Was the… ah, food any good?'

 

She starts a monologue about the wide selection of vegetarian dishes and meat substitutes and if he thinks about completely abandoning meat Indonesia would be very suitable to start with (what). He nods and reacts here and then, discreetly checks his phone for any sign from Sherlock.

 

They finish dinner and watch tv. After living in 221B he couldn't be quiet during the late show. He kept waiting for Sherlock remarks about who shagged the director or who recently left the rehab. Anna never makes a noise because apparently she _likes_ watching. They retreat to bed, John reads a book and she scrolls down her tablet. In forty minutes or so they finally set to sleep. He can't stop thinking about Sherlock so doesn't turn off hi phone, just in case.

 

Some hours in the night his bladder troubles him so he goes to the loo. When he comes back there's a faint light in the room. Anna is checking her phone. Climbing back on the bed, however, he realises it's his own phone.

 

'Hey, what are you doing?' he exclaims indignantly, reaching for the device. She throws it on the duvet.

 

'You don't have any messages from Sherlock, honey. Are you deleting them?' he is unable to read her face in the dark, but her tone requires caution.

 

'Why do you think I'm deleting messages from him? He's been busy, hadn't sent any.'

 

'Well, you keep checking it even if I'm talking to you.'

 

'I don't keep checking, and besides, Sherlock is not the only person I communicate on my phone!'

 

'I hope so.' she turns her back to him and comes back to sleep, or at least pretend to. He stays in shock for a few moments before turning off the mobile and putting it back on the bedside table.

 

\-- * --

 

He doesn't have work in the morning so he leaves for a jog. It's raining faintly, but he minds the slippery pavement and keeps running. After twenty minutes he does a pause, checks his phone. Nothing. He gives five minutes of slow walking and starts over. The second cycle ends near the bridge, and he inspects the mobile again. Still no texts. Five minutes and more running. After the third cycle his eye catches a newsstand, where he scrutinizes all the headlines. Nothing on Aadhya or Moriarty.

 

He's honestly exasperated by now. Why hadn't Sherlock given any news? When was the last time they talked, last week? He decides not to wait anymore. He types "Anything new?" And clicks to add a contact. There's no Sherlock there. He frowns and puts his number, that he knows backwards. He hits _Send_ , but the message never leaves his phone. He tries again, and it doesn't work.

 

He stares at the device confused. The signal is on. He types Sherlock's number again, but on the dialer. Instead of ringing, the call is cut off. He tries calling the clinic. The familiar voice of the receptionist answers. He hangs up. He attempts to call Sherlock and is cut off again.

 

"Ok, this is it."

 

He can't go back home to change and leave again without raising suspicions, and he doesn't have anything on him to get a cab or public transport. His contacts agenda still has an entry called "Minor", which stands for Minor position in the british government. He swallows his pride and presses _Dial_.

 

It takes some rings. _'Oh, look who still lives in London. And here I was thinking murderous wife had struck again.'_

 

'Cut it off, Mycroft.' he replies annoyed. 'Not right now, ok? Where's Sherlock?'

 

_'At this moment? I believe he's on his way home. He left my office ten minutes ago.'_

 

He breathes with relief. 'Ok, can you get me there? I don't have transportation.'

 

_'Oh my, that's how it works now? You ignore him for days--'_

 

'Wait, wait, what are you on about? I didn't ignore anyone.'

 

_Mycroft sighs. 'Sure, Dr. Watson. A car is on its way.'_

 

A few minutes after he hangs up the car appears and drives him to Baker Street. At least he has his keychain with him. Sherlock is in his outside suit, meaning he has just arrived. He seems surprised to see John. More than he expected.

 

'Something happened? Why you didn't answer me?' he asks looking concerned. John blinks.

 

'Nothing happened. What answer? You never contacted me! It's been days since you last texted! I was getting worried.'

 

Sherlock frowns all the way to his nose. 'I texted you a lot. I even called you yesterday, to no avail.'

 

'Well I don't have anything on my history, see?' he shows his phone to him. 'I tried messaging and calling you too, but it didn't work, I was always cut off.'

 

'You said cut off?' Sherlock looks the same way he does when finding a clue at a crime scene. 'Let me see this.'

 

He opens the device settings, definitely not something John does often because he wouldn't know what to do with all those functions. Sherlock finds a command called "Blocked Numbers", and there it is, Sherlock's phone number.

 

'What? You are blocked? But ho-- oh my god.'

 

Sherlock undoes the block and adds his number again to the agenda and speed dial. 'Anna?'

 

'Yes!' John walks around the room, rubbing his face in rage, feeling like a bird in a cage. 'She's been driving me insane! Smelling my clothes and checking my phone when I'm not looking. Christ!'

 

'I have good news, if it comforts you.' he gives his phone back. 'I just came from Mycroft's office. We have enough evidence on Aadhya's activities on arms trafficking to take her to court.'

 

'Sherlock, this is fantastic!' he beams at the detective. 'Do you think it will suffice?'

 

'Yes.' he answers nonchalantly. 'She's working at the TI department of an unimportant enterprise in Canary Wharf. Only façade of course. Mycroft made sure there will be a restriction order by tomorrow morning, when she usually is at her job. Perhaps they will even get free publicity.'

 

'Can't wait for that. But being sincere, I'm grateful to her.'

 

Sherlock ogles him, confused. 'Grateful for what?'

 

'Well,' he shrugs. 'her perfect timing took you out of that plane, wasn't it?'

 

They stare at each other focusedly for a moment. John doesn't know if he's capable of tearing his eyes off Sherlock's. The detective looks at the floor for a second before gazing up again, a side-smile forming on his lips, John feels his own moving up and he wants so much… 

 

His phone chimes and breaks the mood. Sherlock clears his throat and turns back to inspect dust on the mantel. John sighs and reads the text that just arrived.

 

**Lunch is almost ready.  
MW**

 

He groans. 'I don't know if I can't do this any longer.'

 

'Then we should start the second phase of the plan. The due date is soon anyway. I've contacted some integral people and they agreed to help us, after long and boring conversations.'

 

' _Finally_. Who did you talk to?'

 

'Surprise.' he smiles at John. 'But I hope you remember this won't be easy.' he tells, serious again.

 

'Now more than ever.' he says, pocketing his phone after answering that yes, he'll be home soon.

 

\-- * --

He's at the break room at the clinic. Dolores is chatting up the new nurse and Dr. Pattinson is reading a magazine. The tv is on, but nobody is paying attention until all of a sudden the emergency news starts to broadcast. The pressman fights his way with another hundred of journalists trying to break the police blockade.

 

Two officials take Aadhya side by side. Her wrists are locked in handcuffs behind her back and she walks to the special police forces car with her chin up, regarding everyone as if they don't worth the dust beneath her feet.

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I have to say is that chapter 9 has a scene I've been wanting to write for AGES.
> 
> Till next week, my lovelies!


	9. The Tragic Departure of the Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great comeback of an improbable adversary boosts a drastic decision for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed, not britpicked, not first language, any mistakes feel free to point them out and explain!

_**Some day around March, 2012. G A Y Bar.** _

_The place was almost unbearably full, John could tell just by looking. Luckily Sherlock took the side-street that leaded to the alleyway at the back of the pub. In the late afternoon a client had come to Baker Street, saying his boyfriend had been found dead at 2am on that alleyway. They were both from Derbyshire, and it was their first time together in London, so they decided to explore the gay scene._

_According to Connor, they had dinner and went to the famous pub, after a couple hours and some fizzy drinks, Kieran announced he needed the loo. Judging odd his delay, Connor started looking for him, but couldn't find him anywhere. He had asked someone from the staff about Kieran, and they had said a bloke about that description had left a while ago. Connor tried to call, but nobody answered. People tried to convince him his boyfriend had gotten too drunk and walked away, but he was sure he wouldn't, and they hadn't drunk that much. After a couple hours they finally found Kieran's body at the back._

_Connor had said while weeping that the police barely batted an eyelid. The onsite examination concluded Kieran died of blood loss from an impact wound in his head, and he had probably just walked out very drunk, mis-stepped and hit the garbage can after falling. The result was: fatal accident. Sherlock had agreed with him that it sounded stupid, and murder probably happened, so here they came._

_He and Sherlock inspected the alleyway inside and out. There were still blood stains everywhere, and John took pictures of them before someone decided to clean. They made some tests - John was the closest of them in physical similarities to Kieran. Sherlock made him pretend to fall on the garbage can, against the wall, in the middle of the way, many times. Then he pretended to push John around, and force him against things. He hadn't been very cooperative towards the end, but Sherlock seemed to achieve satisfactory inferences._

_They entered the pub through the front door - the alleyway door was closed - to question the staff. Pop music was playing in the background and some people were dancing. Clearly there were lots of tourists. Sherlock went to the bar and asked for the drinks that came with colourful ornaments. He had turned his charming mode on, which usually made John cringe. Poor Molly frequently succumbed for him, but her blind eye had Sauron's dimension._

_Except that the detective wasn't behaving like a discombobulated alien. He was being, for once, smooth like hell._

_'Here your drinks, handsome.' The barman in early twenties put the glasses in front of them. Sherlock smiled intently to him._

_'Thank you.' had his voice dropped an octave or what? 'You are very attentive.' he took a sip from the ridiculous glass with pink, purple and golden feathers, still staring at the barman, who leaned on his elbows on the bar counter. They were both ignoring John._

_'Patrick.' he smiled, doing a check over at Sherlock._

_'William.' Sherlock answered, stroking the tip of his finger over the border of the drink, to John's absolute dismay._

_'You don't look like you come to places like this, William.' the man said in a voice that John fancied to resemble a cat crying._

_'Hmm, how so?' Sherlock rumbled softly._

_'Well, you're the poshest cute thing I've ever seen. Not for crowds.' he smiled all teeth, and John was about to suggest orthodontic care when three girls sat on the other side of the bar and waved for him. 'Sorry, work calls me.'_

_Sherlock abandoned the glass aside, but kept checking the barman's activities. John spinned his back to the counter, not really watching anything in front of him than aware of Sherlock's moves. His own drink remained untouched._

_'Was that really necessary?' he sibilates to Sherlock, which makes him turn his attention to John, instead._

_'That what?'_

_'You flirting with him.' he hissed the word. 'He's a barman, if you want to make weird questions you just have to buy him off.'_

_'You've never bothered that much with this technique.' Sherlock says looking confused._

_'Not...' he started and cut himself off. "Not when you seem so real about it." He finished in his mind. Sherlock was frowning at him, his nose all wrinkled. John looked away._

_'I want to see the toilet, come on.'_

_They elbowed their way to the loo. Sherlock explored everything, going back and forth to the door, considering the distance and visual range between there and the tables. He asked for John to analyse how much he could hear from the outside and vice-versa. He was measuring the little window above them when someone from the cleaning staff entered._

_'Hey, no funny things here!'_

_'If I want to do funny things I could just go to the back alleyway?' Sherlock asked audaciously. The man in his fifties didn't seem keen on mess._

_'Good try, you'd have to get a key from the staff. Just get a cab home.' he arranged toilet paper in the cabins and left._

_'You're suspecting on the staff, aren't you?' John asked him before getting back to the pub._

_'Of course it was someone from the staff.' Sherlock scoffed. 'I'll try the kitchen. I need to know who has access to that door. Examine the pub.' he left in a haze as usual._

_John supposed he should be looking around, but he noticed Patrick-the-barman staring at Sherlock's back as he walked away. His backside, precisely. He sniffed the air and went back to the bar._

_'How can I help you?' the man asked, shaking a mix._

_'So, is this your method to gain a bigger tip, Patrick?' John inquired trying for a casual tone, but failing miserably. The barman looked at him in the eye, threw his head back and barked a loud laugh._

_'Jesus Christ, I'm sorry mate!' he said still laughing. 'Didn't know it's your territory. Should take care, tho, he seemed very eager to be honest.'_

_John clenches his fists. 'Not my territory. I'm not gay. And he wasn't "eager", cut it off.'_

_'Okay…...' Patrick acquiesced slowly, looking at him as if he was cracked. 'Then why are you here again?'_

_John just blinked at him in silence. The barman raised an eyebrow. He tapped his fingers the balcony and departed. Coincidently Sherlock was coming out of the kitchen and signaled the front door. In his peripheral vision he saw Patrick giving him a knowing look, which he pretended to disregard. They left the pub and while walking away Sherlock got his phone out to text._

_'So… found something?'_

_'Yes, it was the bathroom guy. Completely by accident, he pushed the victim away and he fell. He didn't see the boy hitting his head and passing out. Boring.'_

_'But why he pushed him?'_

_'Details later, I have a sudden desire for sushi.'_

_'Who are you texting?'_

_'Lestrade. The DI in charge is from his division. He'll take the necessary measures.'_

_He pocketed his phone and started to look for a cab. John chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment._

_'I thought you were going to question the barman.' He affirmed nonchalantly, not catching Sherlock's eye._

_'Not necessary. One look at him showed he's hardly murderer material. Just wants to come back home to his cats.'_

_'Then why were you talking to him?' He finally turned to Sherlock, his voice tuning off a bit, so he cleared his throat to cover it up._

_Sherlock had that expression of when he didn't want to spell out something. 'Because I wanted to. The case was boring and quick, DI Truman is an idiot. Enough now.'_

_They would come back to this place years later, at John's stag night, but Patrick doesn't work there anymore._

 

\-- * --

 

He supposes it's silly and a bit inappropriate of him to consider the whole ordeal anticlimactic, but that's how he feels. 

 

It was simply found more and more evidences on Aadhya, including arms trafficking, homicide, illegal possession of firearms, gang formation, and hackering activities. It was all over the news. They even managed to identify an old professor from Essex, who said in interview it was a shame such a bright student to have lost herself. The Moriarty "Did you miss me" video was always replayed at the end to add dramatic effect.

 

Moriarty is, ultimately, dead. He is a page turned, and John is honestly glad. He couldn't bear even hearing his name anymore. He understands now how it was still a shadow in his back, tormenting him all the time.

 

Besides, he has other problems to deal with. 

 

He had planned not to say a word to Anna, but with such a huge coverage, it's impossible to feign ignorance on the matter without seeming suspicious. They usually watch together the news in the morning, before he leaves for the clinic. As they do it today, he remains silent having heard the news for the millionth time.

 

She seems very distressed, though. The night before she had been feeling nauseated and went to sleep early, but she still looks sick. When they show Aadhya's picture next to Moriarty's, she presses a hand to her stomach, frowning deeply.

 

'Are you okay?' he asks a bit distrustful.

 

'Feeling sick. Can you get me an antacid?'

 

He gets up to prepare a cup of Nexium and bring back to the living room. She drinks in small gulps.

 

'Did you eat something strange yesterday?'

 

'I don't know.' she gives the cup back to him and reclines on the sofa. 'Perhaps the chicken sauce was off. I'll rest a bit.'

 

'Ok. If you feel worse, call me.'

 

He doesn't say anything about Aadhya and she doesn't ask. He leaves feeling giddy that she doesn't know Dr. Connery was going to cover his afternoon to pay for an absence the other day.

 

\-- * --

 

At lunchtime he gets the tube to Baker Street. Nothing in the morning could have diminished his good humour. Even when a boy bumped on him and didn't excuse himself he just let it pass, albeit usually he would be pissed. He stops at Speedy's and buys two sandwiches for him and Sherlock, and while waiting for them he puts his phone on silent. No crazy wives this afternoon, he just wants to relax.

 

He uses his key to open the door. He didn't warn Sherlock beforehand, but he expects he's at home. Ascending the stairs he hears some music and laughter… of two people? He frowns and climbs up quickly.

 

The scene in front of him is completely unpredictable. Sherlock is dancing with… Janine?

 

'What the hell is this?' he asks loudly over the music. They start at his voice. Sherlock stops laughing ( _what?_ ), steps back and flips down his laptop lid, cutting off the music. Janine doesn't seem worried about a thing. Janine, who was in Sherlock's arms just now. _Dancing_. With Sherlock. Janine, who sold stories about him to the papers, who spent a whole month playing girlfriend with him who _slept in his bed_. She greets him from afar with a happy wave.

 

'Hey John! Didn't expect you here!' she says smiling.

 

'Yeah, I could say the same.' he responds, still standing by the door.

 

'John, weren't you working this afternoon?' Sherlock asks looking a bit anxious.

 

'Someone covered for me. Brought lunch.' he answers wryly, raising the paper bag with them.

 

'Janine consented to talk to Anna-Greta.' Sherlock gestures in her direction. She's gathering her things. 'Since they have some unresolved matters. Empathy and emotional appeal could work to--'

 

'Yeah, leave that part for me, Sherl.' she cuts, beaming at Sherlock. John clenches his fists, almost tearing the paper bag. 'And now I don't owe you a dance anymore, but feel free to ask.' she finishes with a wink (!!!) to him. 'John, I'm sorry for your situation. I hope I'll be able to help. Everything's gonna be all-right.' she adds to him in a second thought.

 

'Ok.' he replies. Sherlock frowns at him from his chair, to where he moved during the brief interaction. Janine just looks at John in a perceptive fashion, goes to Sherlock and _kisses his hairline_. He averts his eyes, trying to conceal his face.

 

'Now you, text me after you tested your gift.' she smiles mischievously at him. John turns back in time to see Sherlock becoming a living shade of tomato. John narrows his eyes and searches the room. On the kitchen table there's a fancy small black paper bag.

 

'Bye-bye, John!'

 

He moves for her to pass, closing the door immediately after. He runs to the kitchen, Sherlock hot in his heels. The detective tries to get the paper bag before him, but John has the surprise advantage, so he just sticks his hand inside and pulls a small box, surrounding the table to put distance between him and Sherlock.

 

The box is white and green, and reads _Funzone Vulcan Ripe Mouth_. He promptly returns it to the bag. Sherlock grabs it and tucks it inside a cupboard. He looks terribly embarrassed.

 

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--' he swallows.

 

'Janine's idea of fun.' Sherlock mumbles, going to the living room. John follows him.

 

'Ok, can you explain what were you doing?' his initial anger coming back.

 

'What was I doing?' Sherlock bites his bait. 'What have I done now?'

 

'All this...' John brandishes his hands around. 'Spectacle with Janine!'

 

'Spectacle?' Sherlock pronounces the word angrily. 'Spectacle means someone should be watching. There was no one watching until you came without warning!'

 

'So that's it then? I shouldn't be around so you can have fun with her?' he's aware he's already raising his voice.

 

'Don't be ridiculous!' Sherlock scorns. 'I think I'm entitled to interact with other people, as you always do. And I happen to enjoy Janine's company.'

 

'Good for you then! Forgetting about the lies she told the newspapers about you.' he says sarcastically.

 

'Harmful lies surely, about my inhuman sexual prowess.' Sherlock replies in the same way.

 

John laughs without joy. 'Must be a topic she has extensive knowledge. She's even bringing you gifts to compensate her absence.'

 

'For god's sake, first Irene now this, _I didn't sleep with her_!' he gesticulates wildly.

 

'Well, it's not what it seems!' John is almost shouting now, he's seeing everything a bit red.

 

'Why do you insist in being so _blind_ after all these years? You can't be that stupid!'

 

'What are you talking about? What is it that moron-John hasn't seen _again_?'

'I wouldn't have sex with Irene or Janine or Molly or whatever because **I'm gay**!' He yells in the highest pitch John has ever heard him producing.

 

Silence falls awkwardly as the elephant in the room flees. John and Sherlock just stare at each other, the latter showing a worrying pale complexion and the first ignoring his bitten tongue. Sherlock finally gives in and sits on the sofa, not looking at him. John notices he's positioned right in the middle, as if discouraging him to come closer.

 

'Why you never told me that?' John asks almost whispering. Sherlock looks at him appalled.

 

'I told you many times. Since the first day. I just didn't spell out the word. I suspected you were denying the clues, but it never crossed my mind you really _didn't see_.'

 

John is too sober for this. But he doesn't want to go fetch alcohol, he's afraid he'll give the wrong impression. 'Who else knows?'

 

'Everyone in bloody London! And also Norfolk now that I think about it.'

 

He swallows. 'I'm sorry.'

 

Sherlock just dismisses him with a wave. The unpleasant mood sustains some more. 'I had a boyfriend you know.' he murmurs, definitely looking everywhere but John, who is glad one can't really suffocate in saliva.

 

'What? When?'

 

'Some years ago. Lestrade knew him, briefly.'

 

'Who is him?' and how did you two meet, how did you know you fancied him, how long did you stay together, why was it over, where is him now, but John finds it very hard to project his voice right now.

 

'Doesn't matter.'

 

He keeps gazing at Sherlock, who keeps avoiding him. He goes to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. The black paper bag mocks him. He stays there a minute or two longer than he needed. In fact, scratch that, he needs it very much. He takes a deep breath and comes back to the living room. Sherlock looks like someone who was defeated painfully. John walks to him and stops only when the point of his boots are touching Sherlock's obscenely expensive dress shoes. He still doesn't look up from the floor.

 

'Sherlock?'

 

'Yes?'

 

'I want to do something. Can I?'

 

That gets Sherlock's attention. He raises his head confused and curious, but John doesn't give him the opportunity to read him. He holds Sherlock's face delicately, a hand on each side of the alluring cheekbones and closes the gap between them. His eyelids are already fastened when their lips lock.

 

The position is easy for him, since he's standing in front of Sherlock, who immediately lift his hands to John's neck. He wants to keep the kiss simple, but Sherlock moves his own lips minutely, to which he reciprocates. It's as tender as it could be, but so exquisite. The sound of John's heartbeat is hammering in his head, and Sherlock's face is so soft.

 

They kiss for what feels like eternity, which is absurd and cliche and fantastic.

 

\-- * -- 

 

That night the news anchor informs them that the court for Aadhya's case is confirmed. Anna is forever silent and John's thoughts are miles away. When they climb the bed couple hours after, John's phone already turned off and under his pillow, she says in a murmur:

 

'I don't have anything to do with that.' her voice has a little note of prospective tearful desperation. 'I don't want that life anymore. I told her when she came here. I didn't have any connection with her.'

 

He considers this for a moment. 'I know. I believe you.' he really does. 'It doesn't matter, honestly.'

 

He's not lying. It doesn't. There's nothing else to add against Anna, because he was over her for a long time now.

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jasndfajlnfljndjf *hides behind a rock and screams to the void*
> 
> Sorry, I forgot to post yesterday! But here it is! I'm going home for Easter, but I don't know if I'll be able to post the new chapter on the weekend. Any changes I'll post on tumblr. Come talk to me there! username thanks-mike-stamford.
> 
> See you!


	10. Where daydreams come true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second phase of the plan starts, but there's only one thing in John's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting the second part of this fic, where we have more Johnlock, less Mary, and Sherlock pov soon to come!
> 
> Warning this is a chapter basically about kissing regrets I don't have any. 
> 
> not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language

_**Memoirs of Scott** _

_When he left he took half of me with him_  
I thought living didn't matter anymore  
And then he came back like a phoenix  
And all I wished was encore 

_He has eyes like a stormy sky_  
And the most innocent smile  
He fulfills me like nobody else ever did  
I want him to stay forever with me 

_**Comments** _

_DOCTOR-DONNA  
Cute_

_LITTLE MONSTER  
I hope you don't do poems for a living_

_TRISHA  
HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA_

_WHAT  
hey perhaps you could work better on your rhymes, but it's sort of nice. _

_UTADA IS BACK  
Scott and his bae, sitting on a tree, they are k-i-s-s-i-n-g_

_JOSHUA  
Did you bang him?_

_RHY  
Woah _

 

\-- * --

 

'You were walking with your eyes closed?' John questions while cautiously maneuvering the teenage's fractured nose, whose cartilage was so flaccid his mother stayed outside, not wanting to look.

 

'I was typing on my phone.' he hisses gazing the ceiling, and resumes breathing through his mouth.

 

'Bad idea that.' he says as he steps back to get the nasal spray and speculum. 'It's not a serious injury. I'll just realign the bone and cartilage manually. This will alleviate a bit the discomfort.'

 

Luckily the boy is not whiny or hysterical. He makes some sore faces but otherwise the process is quick. They sit at his table again while John prescribes his home treatment. Basically ice pack or cold compresses until the swelling diminishes, sleep with his head high, ibuprofen if it hurts too much, avoid contact sports for at least six weeks.

 

'And keep your eyes up when walking.' he finishes stamping the prescription and giving to him. The boy takes a look at the sheet.

 

'You're John Watson. The blog one.' he says ogling him carefully. 'About Sherlock Holmes.'

 

John blinks at him. 'Ah… yeah. We work together.'

 

He chews his lip. 'I saw some pictures of him. He's cute.'

 

It's on the tip of his tongue to respond with "I know" but he refrains just in time. The teenage doesn't seem to mind his silence because he shrugs and leaves. John spots his mother getting up as soon as the door opens, and waves to her before it closes.

 

It was very hard to not spend his shift daydreaming about the day before. Every now and then he catches himself drifting off--

 

They had started giggling while kissing. John fell to the sofa besides Sherlock, who drove closer instead of budging up. His body had been all turned in John’s direction, like a sunflower to the light. John noticed he was slouching a bit to maintain the eye-level, and that he kept moving minutely as if contemplating something, looking directly at his face.

 

John couldn’t resist peppering kisses on him, sinking his fingers in the nest of curls. He pecked his mouth, cheekbone, jawline, and then back on the tip of the pointed nose, which got him another chuckle. He drew back a bit to look at him.

 

How could he look so soft? How could Sherlock Holmes, known as the most abrasive arsehole in London, be there all melted in John Watson’s very own arms, receptive and soft like cotton, smiling silly at him with his eyes and crooked nose, how _dare_ him look like that and expect not to be kissed over and over and over-

 

He approached slowly once again, kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and just stayed there, his lips locked with the smooth skin and his nose sort of immersed in his cheek. He felt the detective closing his eyes by the flipping of eyelashes against the side of his own face. Then a thought crossed his mind, an old desire that had taunted him day and night. He changed the location of his nose from Sherlock’s cheek to his neck. Oh, now that was a nice place to bury himself and die in peace, and going by Sherlock’s shudders and the tight embrace he created, he agreed as well. The glorious neck. So long…

 

‘You didn’t kiss her like this.’ he mumbled against the pale skin.

 

‘Who?’

 

‘Janine.’ he pets the fair surface with his nose. ‘When I saw you kissing. It was a quite boring kiss.’

 

‘Oh.’ it’s more a blow than a syllable. ‘I didn’t actually want to kiss her. As I said, women are not my area. I still can’t believe you ignored all my flamboyance, honestly John…’

 

‘Then why were you dancing with her?’ John murmured, not planning on releasing him too soon. Sherlock didn’t complain, though.

 

‘Just having fun. I like to dance.’ he whispered back, still holding firmly on his back. ‘She never really wants anything from me. I can be myself. And she didn’t dance with me on the reception, so…’

 

The reception. Of his wedding. Which reminded him of his insanely jealous murderous wife.

 

Reluctantly he reclined on the sofa again, but kept an arm across Sherlock’s shoulders just because he could. ‘So, she’s going to do what? Talk to her? Do you really think _Janine_ will convince Anna to get away from the country, never come back, and leave our daughter with me, just so?’

 

‘Of course not John, do keep up.’ oh there it was, soft Sherlock but still didn’t take stupidity. What a strange combination. ‘They are going to talk, Janine will plant the seed of the idea. That’s a powerful thing, as you’re aware. After that, David will come—‘

 

‘Wait, what David? Her ex?’

 

‘Yes. They obviously still have a strong connection after everything, why would she invite an ex to her wedding? And he’s clearly eager for something if it doesn’t work out even if I _did_ warn him before the wedding…’

 

‘You. Warned him? Oh my god that’s why he was so wary around you!’

 

‘I was trying to make it work, ok? He was an evident obstacle!’

 

John played with the nape curl with his point finger while considering this. Yes, he did. Sherlock had done everything for him to have the perfect boring life he allegedly wanted. And all he got was a bullet in the chest, the threat of exile and death far away from home and John asking more and more things of him. He leaned to press another light kiss on the cupid bow lips.

 

‘Do you think she would run away with David?’ he asked in low tone. 

 

‘Probably not. But I hope she’s shifty after that. I still have a card.’ Sherlock replied likewise, behind semi-closed eyelids. ‘Mycroft is sure she still has family in Hungary. He’s trying to contact them.’

 

‘She is very connected to the idea of family.’

 

‘I know.’

 

‘You’re such a smart man, Sherlock Holmes.’

 

He smiled. ‘Indeed.’

 

John smirked and pulled Sherlock to himself, making him almost horizontal in the air and at the proper angle to be looked at from above. So beautiful. He encircled the detective completely and gave him a proper snog, to which Sherlock retributed enthusiastically.

 

He blinks out of his revenue and groans, pinching his face. He is too old for this, replaying lovely events in his head all day like a teenager after the first kiss. But they were quite lovely, who can blame him. And also, he doesn’t really want to think about the fact that Janine is probably at his house right now, trying to sweet-talk Anna into abandoning the life she had been prepared to kill for. He doesn’t want to think about how he had given Sherlock no easy options to deal with this, how it sounds very dumb in his head right now that he even considered she would accept this kind of arrangement.

 

It’s so, _so_ much better to just relive in his head the moments with Sherlock. Now that he has it, finally, he doesn’t want to let go. And he also can’t let go the fact that he _will_ be a father. It’s time to start planning, because honestly, it’s late enough.

 

How would it be, he, Sherlock, and a child!, at 221B? He hasn't talked to Sherlock about this. Is it too soon? Because the due date is almost knocking at his door. He has to acclimatize. They both have.

 

First things first, there are only two bedrooms at the flat. One is for the baby of course. Skyler? He doesn’t want to concede again for her, but he likes the name. Ok, let’s go with Skyler. Skyler can take the smaller bedroom, which had been his? The stairs make him a bit uneasy but he can block the door with those baby-proof gates. And he could sleep… with Sherlock. Oh my, he’s quite jumping ahead isn’t he?

 

And the cases? Who is going to stay with her while he’s away? It will take a while before she can go to the nursery. She has to start eating properly before that, which is usually around six months. Christ, what about the milk? Could he get from a bank? Perhaps even Anna could give it to him in bottles in the beginning?

 

And Sherlock, how would he be with a child? The flat is quite dangerous. Perhaps if he organized a bit more…

 

John starts to panic again. The conversation with Mycroft, when Sherlock was in the hospital, comes to his mind. Is he intruding too much? He doesn’t doubt Sherlock would accept them if John asked but, is it fair? He guesses it’s time to see Ella. So many questions are making him beyond nervous.

 

As soon as his shift ends he goes to Baker Street, and he feels like it’s already becoming routine. Not long, he hopes, he will be able to say he’s going home again. His definitive home, where the most important people in the world would be waiting for him in the end of the day. His daughter and his… he settles for his Sherlock. No need to extrapolate this early.

 

Mrs. Hudson is leaving in her flirty dress when he opens the front door, which makes him raise an eyebrow to her.

 

‘Don't look at me like that, young man.’ she playfully scolds him, then coming closer to theatrically whisper to him. ‘I think he’s in a good mood. By-ee!

 

A smile is already arising in his traitorous lips, and he tries to keep the chill before ascending the stairs. He can hear the faint sound of the violin, but not the usual I’m-trying-to-murder-by-noise typical from the periods in between cases, or the melancholic and agonizing melodies characteristic of the depressive episodes. He comes up slowly, stopping by the open door.

 

Sherlock is at his normal spot, in front of the window, back to the living room entrance. He’s wearing his client clothes except for his jacket, which means Janine hasn’t arrived yet. He is completely absorbed in playing the instrument. The music is not something John has ever heard him playing, or anything of the kind. It’s a midtempo, with a hidden note of something so very provocative the hair in his nape prickled. Suddenly he stops to write something at the sheet by his side. Oh, then.

 

John knocks on the door. ‘Composing?’

 

Sherlock turns to him abruptly, finally realizing he was there. His face incorporates a strong shade of crimson and John wants kiss him _so much_. ‘Just passing the time.’ he unconvincingly dismisses him, putting the violin in its case and the sheets in a folder. He stands there, holding his hands together at his back. ‘Janine will be here at any time. She texted me when she left your house.’

 

‘All right.’ he says not really paying attention to that. He just firmly walks to the detective and only halts when there’s no personal space between them. ‘And can I say hello to you?’

 

Eyes locked with his he mumbles a ‘Yes.’ before John pulls his nape down, allocating his remaining hand at Sherlock’s waist and meeting their lips. After a whole day John was starting to feel abstinence from that. Oh, not good, getting addicted so quickly. But then, Sherlock has always been like a drug to him, and if this is the kind of fix he needs to have everyday, he’s completely fine with it, with Sherlock holding his back like that every time they kiss, with his fingers playing with the silky curls, in fact, what he’s getting right now is not even enough.

 

'Hello.' Sherlock murmurs after they draw back a bit. John beams stupidly at him.

 

The front door bell rings loudly, making them jump out of each other.

 

‘Must be her. Just a second.’ and John has to bite his tongue not to giggle absurdly at Sherlock’s scarlet cheeks and dishevelled hair, which obviously Janine is going to notice. He takes a seat in his chair, waiting for them to come upstairs.

 

Sherlock enters the room and moves his own chair a bit so he’s not completely sideways to the sofa, where Janine accommodates herself easily. Just this little consideration is enough to light the sparkle of jealousy in him. She’s a gorgeous woman, which makes it worse. Even if they didn’t have sex, they _had_ kissed, in John’s very own presence, mind you. They had been sort of… intimate. She called him a pet name, she knew where the things were placed in the cupboard, she slept in his bed even if he wasn’t there, she took a shower with him—

 

Christ _almighty_ , he had forgotten about that. She had seen Sherlock naked! Fully starkers, and all wet! Not even John had that privilege yet, only some parts of him. At Buckingham Palace he _almost_ got a glimpse of his backside but he had grasped the sheet at the last second.

 

Oh, but he was definitely going to rectify that.

 

‘So, how was it?’ he starts, to gloss over his reverie.

 

‘Well, I’m not really sure we advanced much.’ she answers. ‘But she wasn’t hostile to the conversation. I tried not to push too much at once, and I was hesitant because she was a bit strange.’

 

‘Strange how?’ Sherlock asks, steepling his fingers under his chin in the praying lookalike fashion.

 

‘Well, when I touched the baby topic she didn’t seem much excited about it. I questioned if she thought she was ready to be a mother and she changed the conversation. I don’t know, it was a bit weird. Oh, and John, do you think she should be drinking coffee so close to the due date? She felt a bit sick afterwards.’

 

Sherlock is frowning but he has his thinking face on. John blinks at her. ‘Ahn, she doesn’t consume that much coffee, so it was never a problem. But she has been feeling nausea these days, perhaps is the nerves.’

 

They talk a bit more, recounting other important parts of the conversation to make sure it was going the way they had planned. Finally there’s nothing else for Janine to add, so she announces her departure. She shakes hands with John, but kisses Sherlock’s cheek. He keeps balling his fists until the door closes with her out in the street.

 

‘There's something wrong.’ Sherlock walks in a circle around the coffee table. ‘There's something I’m missing and it’s staring at my face.’

 

John interrupts him by taking his hand, and walks backwards until he reaches his chair, pulling the detective with him. He sits and Sherlock comes down right in his lap, ironically or not in the same position he watched Janine take months ago. Sherlock’s eyes are wide as saucers and he has stopped talking.

 

‘Doesn’t matter right now. We have some important things to do before I have to leave too.’ he explains, knowing his time limit before Anna gets suspicious he’s not home yet is running up. ‘So if you mind.’

 

He pulls Sherlock’s face to his once again, and he’s aware that having a glorious lapful of consulting detective won’t make it easy for him to go away, but he still has an irrational jealousy to work on with his therapist and years of lost opportunities piling up in his record, so he will take everything he can get.

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So............ yeah I know. But thing is, I don't have internet at home since the end of March, and the whole fic is on google docs. I'm posting this using the university wifi (ops). I'll try to post more frequently in these two weeks to compensate!
> 
> See ya! Talk to me on tumblr! Username thanks-mike-stamford :)


	11. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft reappears to settle some personal loose endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language.

When he arrives home at night Anna is awake in bed, making sour faces with a hand over the top of her belly and a glass of water on the bedside table. He puts the room in a dim light to not disturb her and approaches, kneeling by the bed. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks in a low voice.

 

‘Upset stomach.’ she answers, opening her eyes just enough. ‘Shouldn’t have drink coffee.’

 

‘Let’s cut caffeine in general.’ he replies, checking roughly for the temperature with a hand on her brow. ‘Unless it’s chamomile tea.’ he gets up and goes to the bathroom.

 

While taking a shower he ponders how strange is that she’s having nausea so frequently in the last weeks of pregnancy when the entirety of it had been quite calm. Or he supposes it was. In fact, she never said anything about the first months she spent alone, except for the occasion she showed him the ultrasound. He deduces from this that she didn’t have any complications worthy of commenting. Should he have asked? She complained a couple times how how he never asks for her to tell the stories she passed through, but honestly he’s not interested. In fact, he was never interested in her past, even when he didn’t know it included her pointing a gun at his head in a dark swimming pool.

 

Remembering those events obviously bring Sherlock to his mind and a foolish smile to his lips, that he tries to drop. He _can’t_ think about the detective, because that leads to idiot moony faces, which Anna will scent like the devil and press him until he says something.

 

He finds soup and bread in the kitchen. He dines and browses the internet for a bit before going back to the bedroom. Anna is apparently already drifting off, so he turns the light completely off and joins her in the bed.

 

‘Janine came here today.’ she says in a sluggish voice.

 

‘Did she?’ he tries for casual. ‘First time since she moved to Surrey, isn’t it?’

 

‘Yeah. We are meeting again for lunch tomorrow.’

 

‘Sounds good.’

 

There’s a shift and then she is looking intently at him. He stares back, not knowing what to do. After a moment she settles again with her back to him and proceeds to sleep. He turns off his phone, puts it under his pillow and follows suit.

 

\-- * --

 

The day after he only has to go to the surgery in the afternoon, and Anna has a lunch appointment with Janine, therefore he leaves early to Baker Street with a bag containing his things so he can go to work directly from there. They also are meeting with David this morning, something with a weird feeling he cannot categorize.

 

When they were writing the invitations, John had presented a quite mediocre list of possible parties. Mrs. Hudson, of course. Molly and Greg represented outlier relationships to him, since they were much more Sherlock’s friends than his. With Molly he barely remembered changing words that didn’t involve a dead body, or ever for that matter. 

 

Greg was a bit more complex, they were friendly with each other but it wasn’t like they meet for a pint and talk about nothing. In fact, John wouldn’t have invited him at all if during the “years-without-Sherlock” the DI hadn’t come to him sometimes, out of guilty probably. John accepted because he was the only person that didn’t avoid talking about Sherlock in his presence, and never spared a bitter remark about the consulting detective, even if he smiled fondly after. John hadn’t been wanting more pity and grief, and Greg offered none of it.

 

James Sholto… that was a long shot. There were some scarce communication between them after John came back to England, but nothing significative. Despite his perseverance with Anna that he was going to the reception, he hadn’t hold much expectation beyond the respect for formalities. The mixed feelings he still had about him contributed to a bit of overreaction on his part when he actually turned up.

 

He had also sent Mycroft an invitation, but only for him and Sherlock to have a laugh. The deluxe coffee maker he had sent as gift was great, though.

 

He had considered his old friends only for a moment before remembering Sherlock’s video for his birthday, so he crossed all of them out.

 

Mike Stamford. Well, he wasn’t much surprised he hadn’t gone. The last time they talked had been at Sherlock’s funeral. Sherlock liked Mike, and it was reciprocal. Mike never bothered with Sherlock’s bad manners, in fact he seemed to think they were amusing. Probably Mike had more oversight than John attributed to him.

 

Harry hadn’t received an invitation.

 

Hence, the wedding had been filled with Anna’s guests. Basically, everyone from the clinic. Dolores and a woman from the cleaning staff were bridesmaids. Janine, that she had known for less than a year, and how they met John doesn’t have the single idea. The other people were completely strangers to him, and now that he puts some thought in it, they were probably to her too.

 

And David. She had said they dated briefly before she came to live in London. He supposes it was a hint about this marriage that he didn’t question him going to the wedding. He remembers him starting a hug motion towards Anna and then stepping back as if thinking it through. Sherlock doesn’t have much tact about people’s sentiment, but he is usually very observant about this kind of signs. He suspected David still nurtured feelings towards her since the beginning. He probably had been counting on that when he contacted him.

 

So when he arrives in 221B he’s ready for a very, hugely awkward morning.

 

Sherlock has already arranged the furniture for client mode and is sitting in the leather chair, distracted by his phone. John puts his bag away somewhere he doesn’t care, strides to him to get his day share of kisses, which Sherlock complies without hesitating, to his delight.

 

‘Good-morning, Dr. Watson.’ he says playfully. ‘I see you’re clean shaven.’

 

John chuckles at that. ‘Only because a certain detective likes smooth skin. I wouldn’t mind growing a beard.’

 

‘I wouldn’t mind that too.’ Sherlock replies breathily, seeming surprised. ‘If it’s the right beard. Just don’t bring back the _moustache_.’

 

John giggles and pecks him, carefully storing that info for later. ‘Let's see what we can do about it.’ 

 

It's a lovely thing to flirt around shamelessly, so they dedicate themselves to it while waiting for David, who rings in punctually. They assume their positions.

 

‘So, David. You asked for this meeting in spite of the fact that we had already covered your course of action. I presume you want to talk to John.’ he puts his hands in praying fashion under his chin.

 

The man glances nervously at John before looking back at Sherlock. John can’t help but notice they are quite lookalike ‘Yes. I… ahn… I thought it was the right thing to do.’

 

‘Obviously this has to do with your maintenance of romantic feelings about Anna-Greta even after three years of her breaking up with you.’

 

‘Sherlock.’ John murmurs through gritted teeth.

 

‘What? It’s true.’ he whispers back, ignoring the other man in the room.

 

‘Still not good. Let me do this.’ he clears his throat and turns to David. ‘Well…’ 

 

The man adjusts in his seat, looking the most uncomfortable person in the world. ‘John. I know how it seems, I went to your wedding, but I want to make it clear that I would never stab you in your back.’

 

‘I didn’t think you would.’

 

‘It’s true that I… never moved on Mary. Sorry, I can’t call her Anna-Greta, it doesn’t sound right.’

 

‘It's okay.’

 

‘I just… I’ll go there and say all these things to her but you are still married and—‘

 

‘If it comforts you, David.’ John interrupts. ‘It doesn’t matter. I wish I wasn’t married to her. Technically I’m not, since she’s using a fake identity.’

 

‘Okay. Okay. That’s… thanks.’

 

They all look at each other waiting for something to happen. ‘So… that was it? I think we covered it then?’ John breaks the silence. David takes a deep breath.

 

‘No. No. There is another thing I want to discuss.’

 

John raises his eyebrows to him. ‘Go on.’

 

‘You see. I need to ask. I can’t go talk to her and insinuate possibilities and plans that could make a disaster between me and her. What makes you think that a mother would give up her child? Leave her own daughter to another people take care of, just like that? Do you think Mary doesn’t care about her child?’

 

John pauses to consider this. ‘It’s not that. I’m hoping that she cares enough to do what’s best for our daughter. I know it sounds harsh, but if it’s not on this condition, Anna will go to jail, certainly for life. She won’t be able to raise the child. Do you think it’s fair, for a kid, having to live with her mother in jail?’

 

‘But you are not giving her the choice. You are basically threatening her in expense of a kid because of her past!’

 

‘Her present. She’s still committing crimes. Attempted murder, David, and she was already pregnant at the time! If you don’t mind that, well luck you, but I don’t accept this. I won’t tell my daughter her mother is a murderer and I won’t make her visit her in prison. I also can’t ignore what Anna is doing. This is the best solution. Everyone is winning. You can go away with her and build another life for you two.’ he leaves it out how improbable it is that she will do that with David.

 

The man chews his answer for some moments. ‘Ok. I can’t say I agree with you, but I see your reason. It’s your daughter too after all. I’ll… do what I can.’

 

‘Thank you. I’m very grateful for that.

 

‘So…’ he gets up. ‘I'll be going now.’

 

‘Don't forget the procedure!’ Sherlock warns him. ‘Wait a few days before calling her.’

 

John sees him out and goes back to the living room. He sits on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and buries his nose in the silky curls. He must have washed his hair this morning because it’s smelling like expensive conditioner with the notes of argan oil he hides on the far back of the cabinet but John knows it’s there.

 

‘Do you think he’s right? Do you think I’m wrong about all this?’ he talks to the detective’s scalp.

 

Sherlock embraces him as he could sideways. ‘I'm not judging that. I don’t have your emotional bias in the situation so I can’t possibly tell.’

 

John smiles. ‘Thank you.’

 

They stay like that for some minutes until out of nowhere Sherlock jumps, almost knocking his head on John’s chin, which would have been painful, he thinks relieved.

 

‘What is he doing here at this time of the day?'

 

'What? Who?'

 

Sherlock stalks to the window and makes a melodramatic face just in time for John to hear footsteps on the stairs. His guess proves correct as Mycroft appears on the hallway, classic three-piece suit and umbrella in hand. 'No need for furor, brother dear. I came with good news to you.'

 

He takes a little agenda out of his pocket. 'Eszter Agnes, divorced. Anna-Greta's younger sister and only family alive still in Hungary. I finally managed to contact her. She had disappeared from the files because of a change in her surname, but she she's been using her maiden name again since last year.'

 

'That's good! Will she come here?' John manifests still using the chair's arm as a seat.

 

Mycroft turns to him to answer but he closes his mouth abruptly. For once in his life, John can say that the older Holmes brother looks completely shocked. And not for good. His jaw is locked tight and his mouth makes a thin and tense line. He looks back and forth from John and Sherlock once, as if searching a confirmation for whatever he saw.

 

'This is unacceptable.' he says in a strained voice, eyes sharp like an eagle.

 

John furrows his brow. 'What are you on about?'

 

'Don't play silly with me Dr. Watson. I'm tired of you. _What do you think you are doing?_ '

 

John gets up but he doesn't know what to say. He's never seen Mycroft this angry before. Sherlock beats him to whatever action he's going to take by coming to stay in front of his brother. 'Stop harassing him. This has nothing to do with you.'

 

'When you are walking right into a mistake, _as usual_ , it's my job to make things right. I'm going to prevent the worst thing you could do, this time.' he replies venomously.

 

'Are you a medium now? Can you see the future? You don't know that. And it's _not_ your job to do anything. I never asked you to meddle with my life!' Sherlock says already altering his voice. John starts to get really nervous.

 

'Can someone bother to fill me in?' he asks loudly over the stare competition going on.

 

'Our relationship, John. The shift in it.' Sherlock answers without diverting his eyes.

 

'It's completely absurd! You remember the Victor Trevor disaster? With John is going to be ten times worse! He already damaged you enough!'

 

'Hey! Hang on--'

 

'It's not up to you what I do or not! If I make a mistake it's my problem!'

 

'Sure, and I'll be there to pick up the pieces even if you don't admit it! My efficiency at work would be _tripled_ if I didn't spend half my time worrying about your next stupid moves!' his voice is louder than John has ever heard. The two men seem to have forgotten he was in the room.

 

'You are not taking care of me because you worry, it's because you think I'm incapable of doing things on my own!' John is sure Sherlock is on the verge of shouting.

 

'You haven't shown yourself exactly successful, Sherlock.' Mycroft sneers.

 

'As a child perhaps. I was _learning_. It took time. As a young adult, but only because you never relied on me to do it. I learned, and not because of you.'

 

'Really though?' he replies sarcastically. 'I don't know a single creature with poorer social skills than you. And you throw the sociopath card around so people don't know. You are aware of your limitations.'

 

'Yes, I'm very much aware. But you're wrong. I'm not ashamed of being in the spectrum if that's what you mean. I "throw the sociopath card" so people don't treat me like you do. That's what people like you do, try to coddle like we're inadequate and incompetent. You know something, Mycroft? I'm anything but. So would you please STOP?'

 

Silence fills the room. John looks back and forth between the two of them, mouth agape. Sherlock is breathing heavily like he ran a marathon, but he keeps looking at Mycroft, who is once more completely taken aback. 

 

'I just want the best for you.' he says looking smaller than he should with all his pose.

 

'You're not doing it right then.' Sherlock replies calmly for the first time since the conversation began. 'Everyone loves to see the worst in me. You are always the first to point it out. But John… he sees the best in me. A part I didn't believe it existed for a long time. Don't tell me this is wrong.'

 

They regard each other for a moment, and Mycroft does a concession move with his head. 'Ok then. Dr. Watson, would you see me to the door?'

 

John exchanges a quick look with Sherlock but he has already turned to the living room, apparently looking for his violin, so he follows Mycroft downstairs. At the door they stop, Mycroft with his back to him and a hand on the doormat. The dramatic tendencies definitely run in the family, John thinks.

 

'I believe I owe you apologies for my recent behaviour towards you.' he says in a barely hidden constricted voice.'

 

John dry swallows. 'It's okay. I… I understand, really. You were worried about him.'

 

He looks over his shoulder with a sad upturned lip that resembled Sherlock so much. 'Constantly.'

 

They share a knowing smile and surprisingly Mycroft reach for them to shake hands. John feels slightly solemn over the whole ordeal. The older Holmes opens the door and it's already a step in the street when he suddenly seems to remember something.

 

'By the way, this doesn't change the fact that I _could_ make you vanish from Europe without a trace of your existence, so do watch out.'

 

John laughs all the way closing the door, and he will forever deny but he does get a bit apprehensive.

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeey, for everyone questioning Mycroft in here. There it is. I'll try to update on Monday but I won't promise anything. I'll just leave the synopsis for the next chapter here......
> 
> "John is finally making some arrangements when a shocking fact is revealed."
> 
> HHEHUEHHEHUEHUEHE *goes hiding in my internetless flat*
> 
> See you guys!!! Come talk to me on tumblr, seriously! username thanks-mike-stamford


	12. In the corner of your eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is finally making some arrangements when a shocking fact is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language and late as fuck.

‘You look more relaxed than the last encounters.’

 

’Yeah, I’m… coming to terms about some… stuff.’

 

Ella raises an eyebrow to him. ‘So why did you want to meet me? Historically you give sessions a break when you are well.’

 

He clears his throat. ‘Not exactly. My life is still insane. But… I’m getting hopeful. It’s the most dangerous thing, isn’t it? I saw on a movie. I feel like I can do everything I want. That everything is finally right.'

 

Surprisingly Ella smiles at him. ‘This has to do with the adaptation you were worried about?’ he nods. ‘Are you feeling ready to the new changes in your life, then?’

 

He comprehends she’s talking about him being a father. ‘I think I’m getting there. I still don’t know how to proceed in general but I don’t panic anymore when I think about it.’

 

‘That's very good, John.’ she compliments. ‘But what is it that you don’t know? Still the marriage trouble?’

 

‘Well, not exactly. I… this will end soon. No prospects in there. I… have someone else with me.’ he gets it out before he considers not telling her.

 

‘You decidedly looks happy about it.’ she comments. ‘I've never seen you so talkative in all these years. You are worrying they will have to adapt with you?’

 

‘He. He will. It’s, ah, it’s Sherlock.’ he tries not to show he has to force his eyes to stay fixed on Ella. She keeps smiling knowingly. ‘You don’t look surprised.’

 

‘And I’m not.’ this time she’s definitely cheeky. ‘You have been my patient since you came back to London, and I do follow your blog. I was more surprised that you got married to someone else, if you don’t mind me being honest.’

 

For the first time in all his sessions, he barks a laugh. ‘No, I don’t mind. I can’t even believe that myself.’ he says with a smile. He has been feeling so content and light-headed, and the last time this happened was during the Jennifer Wilson case. Like he had been carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, making him walk with his eyes on the pavement, and suddenly someone took it out and stretched a helping hand for him.

 

Every single time it has been Sherlock, the one fixed point in John’s life.

 

‘Do you want to talk about this?’ Ella breaks his line of thought.

 

He takes a deep breath and calculates the words. ‘I find this new development in our relationship has awakened some irrational reactions I have been trying to hold back.’ he winces at how he sounds like Sherlock. Ella notices, by the raised eyebrow, but does not point it out.

 

‘Such as…?’

 

‘Jealousy.’ he frowns.

 

‘Are you acknowledging problematic jealousy towards him?’ she takes some notes.

 

‘It's just-‘ he runs a hand over his face. ‘It took us so long and someone steps forward and I can’t help but think: back off, this is mine!’

 

‘Stop calling him “this" it’s a good start, since he is a person.’ she replies in a neutral tone, and he supposes they are on trouble territory again. ‘You said you were trying to hold back. Have you felt like this before?’

 

He thinks about it for a moment, recalling Moriarty, and Irene (still stings, he notices), and Patrick the bartender, and Janine - on his bloody wedding! ‘All the time. All the _bloody_ time, even before… you know. That… event. From three years ago.’

 

‘I'm aware.’ she doesn’t remark that he can’t bring himself to say it even after three years and even it it ended up not being real. ‘So it’s quite recurring. When would you say this feeling is triggered?’

 

‘It's not… it’s not with everyone. Sherlock is not a social person. At all. He barely glances at people if they are not a corpse.’ she doesn’t even blink at this statement. ‘So when he _does_ , you know, pay attention to someone, I can’t help but think he considers them special. That if he talks to them properly they’ll find him special too. And-‘ he stops.

 

‘And it won’t be exclusive of you two anymore?’

 

He frowns. ‘When you put like that it sounds I’m being selfish.’

 

‘I didn’t mean that way.’ she replies simply. ‘You are anxious that he won’t find you special anymore if he expands his horizon.’

 

He swallows and nods.

 

‘Is it because you think he could do better?’

 

He flinches. ‘He is amazing. Abrasive and cocky sometimes, yes. But most people don’t _see_ how he really is. And I am… not even remarkable.’

 

‘But don’t you think that he wouldn’t be with you if he didn’t find you remarkable?’

 

‘He wouldn’t if he knew other people notice him.’ he mumbles miserably.

 

Ella writes some more. ‘What do you do when you feel like that?’

 

‘It's not like I can do much. I would call him on, trying to make him admit _something_ was happening. But he can be bloody enigmatic when he wants to. The last time it happened… I was very angry. We discussed. It was when, well, when everything changed for us.’

 

‘Then it took a good turn.’

 

‘You could say so. But it’s absurd! He said himself he would never have something with a woman because he’s gay, but there’s this woman and I can’t _stand_ her being near him.’ he presses the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

 

‘Do you want them to stop being friends?’

 

‘No.’ he sighs. ‘That wouldn’t be fair. He likes her.’

 

‘You see, John.’ she folds her hands on her lap. ‘Jealousy is natural. You’re human and entitled to feel insecure. But there’s a difference between feeling and acting on it.’

 

‘What do you mean?’ he asks confused.

 

‘You don’t have to obey your thoughts. You know you feel threatened by Sherlock’s friend but you also know the threat is not real. While you can allow yourself to feel jealous you don’t have to confront him because of them.’

 

‘Wouldn't be better to _not_ allow myself to feel something that I know is wrong?’

 

‘Counterproductive.’ she shrugs. ‘Like telling yourself to not fall in love with someone because you don’t have a chance with them. It never works that way with emotions. I does work with your behaviour.’

 

He blinks at her. ‘That makes a hell lot of sense.’

 

Their time is running up. ‘John, when is the baby due?’

 

‘Few weeks by now.’

 

‘Right. I’ll leave you homework, what about that? I want you to talk to Sherlock about your daughter. It’s still troubling you and it’s very important that you are on the same page.’

 

He acquiesces, and has to agree that he can’t postpone this any longer.

 

— * —

 

It’s been days since he last went to Baker Street. He was once again going to leave early from the clinic. Today would be David’s first attempt at Anna, so he would manage to be with Sherlock while she was distracted.

 

He had planned to further try to make Sherlock talk about what Mycroft called "Victor Trevor disaster" which he had refused to. And when Sherlock doesn't want to talk about something, there wasn't a living soul who could convince him otherwise. He is the master of avoidance. The king in changing subjects. Bloody cryptic. Since that afternoon had been a relief in a myriad of aspects, John had let go.

 

But as soon as dropped to Earth, he realised how much of the situation resembled Irene Adler's case. Sherlock wouldn't _say a thing_. John pressed, counted moan-texts, even tried alcohol, to no avail. Before Christmas he had taken a look at her website. He had been more angry than turned on, and he had seen her naked. He used his porn email account (had a fake name and user ID) to enter the contact box, asking about some services. The budget she sent him was so absurd he didn't even reply to deny.

 

So, of course, he googled Victor Trevor, who he suspected to be Sherlock's ex. Luckily it wasn't that common a name, and narrowing down to UK he found some facebook profiles. The one that struck him with more potential had been a certain Victor Trevor born two years before Sherlock, currently living in Dubai, ok, but had finished his studies in Cambridge around the time he was sure Sherlock was also there. He had a degree in History of Art, and apparently worked in a tea company. Right.

 

The guy had dark olive skin, brown hair and eyes. Swimmer according to some photos and posts. Pretty good-looking.

 

John hated him.

 

After his conversation with Ella, he decided not to bring this conversation up. For now. Yeah, still working on that part.

 

When he arrives at 221B Sherlock is peeking at his microscope. There's a nasty purple and yellow substance on the surface of the slides near it. There's also a moleskine at his elbow, where he is apparently taking notes. John perches on the chair and kisses his hair. 'What is that thing?'

 

'A mix of two types of codeine cough syrup and promethazine.' he looks up at John. 'Nothing important, just passing the time.'

 

'I won't even ask how did you get opiates, but at least you're only looking at it.'

 

Sherlock shrugs.

 

'How about David?'

 

'He texted me an hour ago. He's probably talking to her right now.'

 

John just breaths deeply. And again. 'John?' Sherlock frowns at him.

 

'I'm fine. It's fine. I just… do you really think this is going to work?'

 

Sherlock smiles dryly. 'We have to try.'

 

'Yes.'

 

They stay in silence for a bit. Sherlock picks at his waist absent-mindly. 'You're tense.' he murmurs.

 

John swallows. 'I… we need to talk about something.' he says, and then because Sherlock's eyes are wide at him he adds 'About my daughter. Come here.'

 

He pulls Sherlock by his hand and guides him to their chairs. He makes a point of pushing them really close, so their legs will be intertwined the whole time. As soon as he sits Sherlock puts his feet in John's lap. He huffs just to pretend and holds the bony ankles fondly, pressing his fingers on the bare skin surface.

 

'I want to know...' he checks again, Sherlock looks relaxed. 'If you mind me living here again.'

 

Sherlock frowns at him. 'Of course I don't. Why would I?'

 

'Because I'll have a child with me. This changes everything.'

 

The git has the nerve to roll his eyes at him. 'I know that, John. It's the whole point of all the scheme.'

 

'But… you're okay with that? A child living here? We'd have to reorganize the whole place. And not just once, all the time.' he needs to make Sherlock understand the degree of adjustment they'd have to pass through. 'Honestly, if it's something you can't cope there's no problem. It's your flat. I can find somewhere else to live.'

 

'That's nonsensical, you can't pay for another place in London and rear a child on your own. The average monthly budget for single-parents during the first five years-'

 

'Sherlock! You'd have to adapt your life!' he interrupts, throwing his hands in the air. 'You will have to order your stuff, clean the kitchen of experiments, deal with crying at ungodly hours and _not_ making noise when she's asleep, and I'll need to adapt my working hours, I won't be able to go to cases with you at first, and not so frequently after. It's a lot!'

 

But the detective seems unfazed. 'Honestly, John, do you believe I haven't considered all this? I planned your wedding from the bridesmaids' dresses to the folding napkins.'

 

That he did. 'You put thought in all the details and you're still sure about it?'

 

'Look,' Sherlock sighs. 'If you want to live somewhere else I'll help you anyway. It's a small flat and I'm a difficult person to live with. But it's no trouble, really.' he's not looking at John as he speaks, who can't not gape at this wonderful human being wriggling his toes at his stomach. 

 

'I bet you have a project of this somewhere, don't you?' he asks softly, making Sherlock look at him with light eyes.

 

'More of an abstract at this point. The time-range is too large.' Sherlock replies smiling with the wrinkles John loves.

 

'Show me.' John beams at him, releasing his feet and getting up. It's in a folder, and John had rightfully called a project, because Sherlock had indeed planned for long-term, with spreadsheets, lists, charts and diagrams. It includes how they would accommodate her in the flat, and the changes in furniture until she went to college, and also their time-table around her before and after nursery and during school, and how much money they would need, and many other things John himself hadn't considered before.

 

They discuss over it, John asserting how unnecessary it was to think about dating procedures in adolescence because he _honestly_ doesn't want to think about that for at least sixteen years. They also debate over Sherlock's estimatives of income for both of them in next years, and how Sherlock had incorporated himself in the share of her expenses too.

 

'You are amazing.' he says at some point.

 

'You're the only one who thinks that.' Sherlock replies shyly, putting away a spreadsheet.

 

'I better be.' Sherlock giggles as John jumps on him. They move to the sofa to snog enthusiastically. John's bubble of happiness is safe until late afternoon, when Sherlock's mobile chimes with David's text.

 

**Just left. Conversation was nice, but I don't think she would be interested in any proposal of mine, so I won't encourage you.**

 

\-- * --

 

Anna is at the living room watching TV, but when he closes the door behind him she turns it off and gets up to face him. He prepares himself for whatever is coming.

 

'David came here today.' she says and he knows immediately they are having a row by her tone.

 

'Sounds nice.' he replies nonchalantly. 

 

She smiles at him all teeth. 'My ex-boyfriend came to visit out of nowhere. You don't care?'

 

'Well, he did go to our wedding. If I cared he wouldn't have been invited. He's a nice guy.' he puts away his coat, noticing she's a bit sweaty at her brow.

 

'Of course. You don't care. You _never_ care. Nothing about this family is important to you.' she hisses.

 

'Now, hang on, are we having this conversation ag-'

 

'You have some nerve on you, don't you?' she interrupts him and the smooth façade drops, finally showing she is bordering on choleric. John's mouth snaps shut. 'I _knew_ this would happen! Do you think I'm stupid, John? That I wouldn't notice what you're doing? Making people come here and sweet talk me into what, exactly? What is it that you wanted? Janine, David, who was next?'

 

He thinks of Eszter, but says nothing.

 

'Unbelievable!' she throws her hands in the air, laughing sourly. She starts to breathe laboriously. 'It was Sherlock, wasn't it? I _**bet**_ you are planning with him. I knew he was going to be trouble!'

 

'He's not trouble, stop this!' he says angrily. 'You are the one making everything impossible!'

 

' _I was trying to save us!_ ' she snarls at him. 'We were doing _great_ before he came along. When I finally have the family I wanted, he just swirls his coat from the death and _off you go!_ '

 

'Good technique, blocking my phone and smelling my clothes! Didn't you see that would only make withdraw from you?'

 

'You didn't need me doing anything to desert our family, and you fucking know that!'

 

'I'm not deserting the family, I'm deserting you!' he yells at her. ‘I will still be with my daughter!’

 

‘Piss off!’ she bites back, putting a hand on her belly and wincing. ‘Like I would let Sherlock Holmes anywhere near my children!’

 

‘You are the criminal here! Who would let _you_ near a child?’

 

‘That's your plan then? Take my daughter away from me and go live a happy life with him? And I’d be happy off? Perhaps the chief bridesmaid of your wedding?’

 

‘What are you going to do about, shoot him again, Anna?’ he snaps.

 

To say silence fills the room is wrong, because her breath is loud, too loud to be normal, and she’s pale and shocked, looking at him with wide eyes, evidently distressed. ‘What did you call me?’

 

He groans. ‘Yeah, all right, Anna-Greta! It’s your name, isn’t it?’

 

She winces painfully. ‘You knew all along. You lied to me.’

 

‘And your pendrive was blank. I’m hardly the worst liar in the house!’

 

She folds her body with a moan instead of answering. He is on her in a second. ‘What is it? Are you okay?’

 

She pushes him weakly, going to her knees. ‘Fuck off.’ but she doesn’t have the force to bite.

 

‘Are you having contractions?’ he asks even if he knows it’s too early for that. Perhaps the stress induced a labour. And the she whimpers and vomits blood on the floor. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he searches for his phone to call for an ambulance, then he remembers Mycroft’s surveillance and bolts to the doorstep, waving his arms fooly.

 

A black car appears out of nowhere. The driver’s window is lowered to show a hard-looking man in suit. ‘She needs to go to the hospital!’

 

The man steps quickly out of the car, and they both help to carry her inside of the of the sedan. She stomps to the far side of him, making clear she doesn’t want him near. She’s also crying silently, holding her belly. The driver is fast in taking them out of there. John starts to text Sherlock to warn him. ‘Where are we going?’ he asks the man at the front.

 

‘Mr. Holmes left instructions to take you to a private facility in case of emergencies.’

 

‘Ok, right, give me the address!’

 

He finishes typing the directions to Sherlock very anxiously. He doesn’t really register the route they are taking and suddenly they are in a hospital. Paramedics appear to put Anna in a wheelchair, and John explains at the reception what happened. They take her away and he’s left instructions to wait in another room not at the hall.

 

Agonizing forty minutes later Sherlock takes a seat beside him. John reclines and rests his head at the wall, turning a bit sideways to breathe the sight of him. Surprisingly he says nothing and tentatively puts his hand in John’s shoulder. ‘We had a fight.’ he says numbly. ‘I made her angry, which was very stupid of me. She was vomiting blood.’

 

Sherlock is trying very hard not to wince, but John can see it. They sit there forever, waiting, until a doctor comes with a chart in her hand. ‘Mr. Watson?’

 

John gets up quickly. ‘Yes.’

 

‘I'm Dr. Coleman, I’m taking care of your wife.’ she takes a look at the chart, which has some sheets clipped on it. ‘We ran some exams on Mrs. Watson. Blood pressure and glucose rate are okay. We had to wait a bit for endoscopy, which is not ideal without hours of preparation, but since it was an emergency I authorized it. The results just came in. It was detected the beginning of an peptic ulcer. That is what caused the expel of blood. There’s no bacteria in the stomach, though, so it probably developed from a nervous gastritis. Now that we’re aware it will be easily controlled, since it's early stage. She will need to be at observation for a couple days, though.’

 

‘Ok. What about the baby?’ he asks anxiously.

 

Dr. Coleman gazes up at him, confused. ‘What baby?’

 

‘For go- my daughter! I thought she was going into early labour, but we still have some weeks to go. Is the baby all right?’

 

The doctor searches his face as if he’s an alien. Sherlock gets up behind him and holds firmly John’s shoulder.

 

‘Mr. Watson, your wife is not pregnant.’

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOOOOOOOOM
> 
> Sorry for the delay. But I have internet at home now *yey*
> 
> I'll stop promising dates. But I hope next chapter is up soon. Talk to me on tumblr! username thanks-mike-stamford.
> 
> See ya! :)


	13. Negligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he was Sherlock he would probably want to know how, but the only question he can formulate in this moment is why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there's a brief conversation about miscarriage here ok? I think it can be upsetting for some people.
> 
> Not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language.

Sherlock talks to Mycroft on the phone by the entrance of the cafeteria, out of range enough so John can’t listen to him, but mindful to keep himself always in sight. Which is very good, because John really needs to look at him now, so he doesn’t think about things he’s not prepared to. Sherlock borders on hyperactive child. He can’t speak without gesticulating wildly, walking in circles and making faces that belong to performing arts.

 

He sits there, drinking his _latte_ , barely noticing when he burns the tip of his tongue, watching Sherlock, so he doesn’t think about all the things that crossed his mind in the last hour, because he’s afraid of it being too overwhelming again. 

 

Since it’s a self-fulfilled prophecy, try to avoid visualizing a pink elephant and that’s all you’ll have in your mind, he rewinds the events. Sherlock putting a coffee in front of him, Sherlock pulling him all the way to the canteen, Dr. Coleman going back inside the staff area of the hospital, him almost losing his temper at her, Dr. Coleman explaining to him there were no signs of pregnancy or a baby, him questioning if she had mistaken the patients charts, Sherlock’s hand at his shoulder anchoring him, Dr. Coleman saying Anna wasn’t pregnant.

 

And then all the fights, all the stress, all the nights badly slept thanks to neurosis of his phone being hacked into, the terrible bully dinner. Sherlock stupidly purposefully overdosing, Sherlock stepping inside a plane to never come back, Sherlock teaching him how to act in front of a murderer liar, Sherlock getting threatened and _shot_. All for nothing.

 

He spent months submitting himself, waiting for a reward at the end, only to be made a fool once again.

 

_Months._

 

He drinks the rest of the coffee, now lukewarm. Sherlock is still talking on the phone. It occurs to him that Anna-Greta had also fooled the great Holmes brothers _twice_. Now that was precious. He tries to remember when that had happened before.

 

Oh yes, Moriarty. Lovely analogy.

 

He is pondering if he could eat a sandwich when Sherlock finally hangs up and joins him at the table. John waits for him to say something, but nothings comes. The detective just fiddles with a napkin tossed aside, looking very uncomfortable and doing funny things with his mouth. John sighs.

 

‘Go on then, ask.’

 

Sherlock looks up instantly. ‘I don’t get it. Didn’t you check?’

 

‘I did!’ he throws his hands up, brought back to Earth from catharsis. ‘We did two pharmacy tests just after the wedding! She was pregnant!’

 

‘Did she go to the obstetrician anytime?’

 

‘Yes-- I guess. She… showed me an ultrasound.’

 

But he never went with her. She never mentioned going again. He also didn’t recommend, even if he should have.

 

‘Didn't you… see her belly?’

 

‘I—‘ he recalls their only try at sex, where she guided his hands all the time and lifted her shirt only for access to her breasts. He thinks how she used large clothes when Sherlock came to dinner, how she remained seated and quiet when Mycroft visited, how sometimes she moved too quickly when she wasn’t thinking about it, like the when they arrived at the tarmac that day. How every time they were too close she would be sideways to avoid touch. She never spoke of the baby moving, and she left the job at the clinic even if it wasn’t necessary. ‘Holy shit.’

 

He’d been completely negligent, and now he was paying for his stupidity. 'Isn't this the chance for you to call me a moron?' he mumbles pathetically.

 

'I'm not doing that.' Sherlock answers. 'You could, however, have been a bit more observant.'

 

'I didn't even process the ulcer symptoms, and they were on my face.'

 

'You didn't want to see.' Sherlock says. 'People can be obtusely blind to determinate things they don't want to deal with. You are not less prepared as a doctor because of that.'

 

'What do we do now?' he asks looking at Sherlock's hand splayed at the table. He wanted to hold it.

 

'Right now we are waiting for Mycroft. You can talk to her if you want to, I believe the sedatives for endoscopy are already off.'

 

He starts to say he doesn't want to ever look at her again, but he stops himself and nods at him. He needs to get it out of his system. If he was Sherlock he would probably want to know _how_ , but the only question he can formulate in this moment is _why_.

 

\-- * --

 

Dr. Coleman had already moved on to other duties of her shift, and Anna is being watched by the nurses responsible for the wing. He talk to them at the main desk and finds out she had already been moved to a single room (of course, Mycroft and his posh private facilities). When he enters the room she's alone, watching television in low volume.

 

She looks weary and disjointed, her complexion grey-ish confronting the white duvet covering her. She hadn't brought any clothes besides the ones she had been wearing, and they were probably filthy because John couldn't see them in the room. She must be using a hospital garb. There's also no bump protuberating under the covers, laid flat over her body. She looks at him defiant.

 

'Look who came. I thought you would be moving out by now.' she scorns at him weakly.

 

'Stop that. What's the point?' he sighs, rubbing his face. He doesn't approach the bed, keeping at least six feet of distance between them. 

 

'What's the point of _you_ being here?' she asks sourly.

 

'Did you fake the pregnancy test?'

 

She glares at him for a moment. 'No. They were right, I was pregnant.'

 

'Then what happened?'

 

'Why should I tell you? It's not like you care. You left me on my own for months.' 

 

He flinches. 'I know I did wrong. I should have assisted you. But you know very well why I needed the space.'

 

She laughs just once, the sound bitter. 'Well, fuck you and your space. I lost the baby before you were arsed to talk to me.'

 

He does a breathing exercise for ten seconds, and Anna looks at him with disdain while he's at it. 'The ultrasound.' he manages.

 

'Authentic.' she replies. 'About twelve weeks in a fortunate chance we could catch her gender. I thought I was safe by then, but a few days after that I woke up bleeding.'

 

People consider twelve weeks the safe point, but spontaneous miscarriage could happen until about twenty weeks, even if not that common. What could have caused it? She wasn't exactly young. Twelve weeks. They both know the procedures of late miscarriage, and all the pain involved. He remembers Mycroft mentioning her going to a pharmacy in his first surveillance report.

 

'I was hurting in every possible way, and I went through it by myself.' she says dryly.

 

He swallows. 'I'm sorry. I really am. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Why didn't you call me?'

 

'You didn't care. You were with _Sherlock_.'

 

'Of course I care!' he exclaims. 'She was my daughter too!'

 

'It wasn't _enough_! There's nothing for you now!' she spits.

 

'Why did you keep doing it? Why fake it till the end?' he asks miserably. 'Were you going to…?' he trails off.

 

'For god's sake I wasn't going to steal some baby if that's what you think. I'm not like that!' she says indignantly. 'The idea occurred to me when you texted for Christmas. It was obvious what you wanted.'

 

She sighs. 'I was going to tell you I lost her. But I had to guarantee I wasn't going to lose you too. We could have tried again. We could have adopted if that didn't work. But I wanted our family. I thought we wouldn't need all this. I didn't consider I would have to lie for so long. I thought we would move on. But you never moved on, did you? You weren't there for me, never.' 

 

'Everything was wrong.' he says. 'I don't--' he clenches his fists, shaking his head at the floor.

 

'Let's start over, John.' she says suddenly, softly. 'Let's erase all this. Let's move somewhere else. Only us. Let's make plans! We never did it, we just went along with the moment, but we can do it now! I promise!'

 

He swallows uncomfortably. 'I can't.' he replies shortly.

 

'You never let me try! You never really gave me a second chance! I'm just asking for this!' she starts to tear up and he has to look away. He shakes his head and she groans in frustration. 'I love you.' she says definitely crying now.

 

'I know. I don't doubt.' he replies surprised that he's being honest. For some reason he does believe that. 'But that doesn't make you a good person. And the one I fell in love with doesn't exist.'

 

She snorts wetly. 'Did you, really?'

 

He doesn't ask what she means, but only because he doesn't know how to answer. So he leaves the room, and this time he knows he's finished with her.

 

He meets with Mycroft down the corridor. Along with him there's a woman he knows he hasn't seen before, but somehow she is quite familiar. Blond, large blue eyes, something about her nose. Then he realises.

 

'John, this is Ms. Agnes.' the older Holmes brother gestures to her, and back to him. 'John Watson.'

 

They shake hands, although Eszter seems a bit uptight. 'I'm sorry to meet you in these circumstances.' he says. She just frowns at him.

 

'She doesn't speak English I'm afraid.' Mycroft intervenes. 'Unless you know german…?'

 

'No.' he cuts him, thinking how rude it is that they are talking in front of her without her understanding. 'Please tell her what I said.'

 

Mycroft speaks to her in hungarian, John idly wonders when did he learn this language. She replies, and he notices that while her face resembles Anna-Greta, her voice is quite different, more low-tuned and husky.

 

'She says she's sorry about everything.' Mycroft translates for him. Apparently that's all. So John nods, asserting. Eszter talks to him again, to which he points to the door. John observes her entering Anna's room and closing the door behind her.

 

'I will be arranging everything from here John, do not concern yourself. I'll have personal staff watching her room.' in fact he sees Anthea and a man that looks like a guard hovering a bit away.

 

'Ta, thanks for that.' he answers. 'Where's Sherlock?'

 

'Harassing some nurses.' Mycroft replies. 'You'll find him at the reception.'

 

Of course. 'What will happen to her now?' 

 

Mycroft sighs. 'I've been in contact Hungary authorities and also some… connections in CIA. Obviously the quite shocking recent discovery shifted the negotiations. But I believe I'm close to manage a place for her in the Forensic Psychiatric and Mental Institution from the Hungarian Prison Service, in Budapest.'

 

He bites the inside of his cheek. 'For life?'

 

'She has a noteworthy criminal history. It's the best outcome for her, honestly. Her sister doesn't live at the capital, but she can visit from time to time.'

 

'Ok. Ok, I'll just.' he gestures to the exit.

 

'Sure. And John? I'm sorry for your loss.'

 

\-- * --

 

Sherlock is at the reception and the nurses walking by are glaring at him, so John just pulls him lightly by the sleeve of the coat to the entrance of the hospital. He keeps doing this until he spots the driver who took him, resting against the car and smoking. The moment he sees them both he enters the car and turn it on, leaving the back door open. They climb it just after him.

 

'Baker Street please.' he says. Sherlock raises his brow subtly but says nothing. 'Your brother said Anthea will watch her tonight.'

 

'Who?'

 

'Anthea. The blackberry bot. Brunette, green eyes.'

 

'Why do you call her Anthea?'

 

'She told me that first Mycroft kidnapped me.'

 

Sherlock gives him a rude pitying look.

 

'I know it's not her name, you dick. But I can't call her Mycroft's main minion.'

 

'Call her the gun-licensed minion, then.' Sherlock shrugs.

 

'I'm not… what?'

 

'She has the advantage on you.' he winks at him. 'She can shoot legally.'

 

'Shut up!' he replies. 'Why were you harassing the nurses?'

 

Sherlock sits straight, looking ahead. 'I was trying to identify the ones that prepared her for Dr. Coleman, who obviously was oblivious to her real situation. Doctor always come only at the end. In fact, I found out they removed her clothes with blood on them and also the… fake belly. It was all discarded.'

 

John nods but doesn't add anything else. He doesn't want to have this conversation in Mycroft's car with a stranger listening. He's coming back to 221B because he can't deal with his house right now.

 

Finally at 221B they put away their coats and also shoes. John finds a bottle of whiskey half full at the cabinet and fills a glass. To his surprise, Sherlock surges behind him and picks a glass for himself. They sit at their chairs, still in the same place John left them, pushed close. When Sherlock doesn't put his legs again in his lap, John tugs at his trousers indicating him he should.

 

Only three glasses later he speaks. 'Deduced what happened?'

 

Sherlock smiles dryly at him, the thin press of lips illustrating he acknowledges it. John sighs, takes a sip. 'I am a bastard for not helping her, aren't I?'

 

'You couldn't have known.' Sherlock replies gently.

 

'I should have.'

 

Sherlock shrugs. 'Not going to change the past.'

 

'When you jumped,' he starts, making Sherlock look up at him in alert. 'I blamed myself for not having paid better attention to you. I could have asked. I could have known if I have done something about it. It would have changed everything. And now I made the exactly same mistake.'

 

'And yet in the end the choices weren't yours.' Sherlock says. 'You weren't responsible for any of that. It's not your fault.'

 

John finishes his drink and gets up. 'I just want to sleep.'

 

He goes to the bathroom. While removing his clothes he fishes his phone out of his pocket. He stares at it for a moment and decides to turn it off. He doesn't want the real world. He had been waiting for the mess to finish, but certainly not like this. He remembers coming back to the flat when Sherlock was at the hospital, questioning himself if he really wanted a child.

 

He nearly retches on the tub.

 

He showers and brushes his teeth with the spare toothbrush he keeps at the cabinet under the sink. It comes to his mind that he doesn't have any clothes at the flat, and the night is a bit chilly. He opens the door just by a gap and calls out for Sherlock. 'Can I have a pyjama of yours?'

 

'Second drawer!' the answer comes from the living room.

 

He wraps himself with a towel and goes to Sherlock's bedroom through the secondary door of the loo. He finds a clean pyjama where Sherlock told him. Luckily the man likes his indoor clothes baggy, otherwise they wouldn't fit John at all. He dresses himself there. He accidently bumps on the towel thrown over a chair and it falls on the floor.

 

He bends to pick it up when something colourful catches his eye. It's a wooden box half under the bed, in a dark corner. John pulls it, out of curiosity. There are some balls of wool inside. White, yellow, green and pink. At the bottom lay a pair of knitting needles. He spots a yellow _thing_ \- it's somewhat shapeless but definitely aiming at something, since it's small and round. Could be a coin bag.

 

However, just beside it, there is a pink _thing_ and he understands what the yellow thing was aimed to. The pink one isn't perfect, some loose ends poking out, but it is clear it is a tiny shoe. A newborn shoe.

 

He bites his tongue hard to hold back a sob. He puts everything back quickly and the box back in place. He completely forgets about the towel and marches steadfastly to the living room. Sherlock is lying prostrated on the sofa, a forearm over his brow, the other arm pending by his side, regarding the ceiling.

 

'When did your learn to knit?' John asks sharply. Sherlock sits up, eyes wide.

 

'You found my things.' he says in a low voice, searching John's face.

 

'Answer my question.'

 

Sherlock looks away, embarrassed. 'I haven't yet. I watched some youtube videos. I was still… getting hold of it.'

 

Sherlock avoids his gaze by fiddling with invisible lint on his trousers, John just stares at him agape for some moments.

 

'Sherlock… stand.'

 

When the detective obeys John pulls him down by his nape, encircling his waist with his other arm, embracing him tightly. After a second of shock, Sherlock retributes, crossing his arms around John's back. John buries his face on Sherlock's neck, breathing it in. They don't talk about it, but John hopes he has understood.

 

'You can sleep in my bed.' Sherlock murmurs against his head. 'I won't be using it today anyway. Your room must be cold without the upstairs heater on.'

 

It crosses his mind that he would prefer if Sherlock joined him there, but he keeps to himself. 'Whatever works for you.' he answers. 'Just… hold me a bit?'

 

'Of course, John.'

 

\-- * --

 

She's been there for hours now. It would be morning soon. The sister had been in the room for ages before her boss took her back to the hotel she's checked in. From time to time, regularly, a nurse would go inside to take blood pressure and all the common procedures for those who stayed overnight at a hospital.

 

Fairbrother is also keeping an eye at the closed door, eventually scrolling down on his personal phone. She could see him liking some photos on Instagram. Their work phones, Blackberry all of them, wouldn't have these kind of apps.

 

Thing is, as professional as she was, she still needs to use the toilet eventually. So she informs Fairbrother where she is going, and he immediately pockets his phone, to pay full attention to his surroundings, seeing that now it would be only one pair of eyes.

 

She goes relieve herself, and thinks they could do with a coffee. She buys two cups at the canteen, but back to their corridor, nobody sits on the chairs beside the door. She checks the nurses at the wing desk, all of them are outside, chatting.

 

She puts the coffee cups at the chairs and a hand inside her jacket, to where rests her compact revolver, and opens the door. Fairbrother lies on the floor in a strange position, stripped of his shirt and trousers. There is a wound at his forehead, not severe but enough to make him unconscious.

 

Anna-Greta is not in the room.

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger. Gosh.
> 
> I'm not using tumblr much because every time I open it there is some setlock I don't want to see, but you can talk to me, I will answer! username thanks-mike-stamford.
> 
> See you!


	14. Delusional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had been distracted enough that he honestly didn’t see it coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language. Sorry about any mistakes, please point them out!

_**Memoirs of Scott** _

_It's common that we use some terms to describe people that are not actually right. People from my work and personal life throw them around without really thinking about what they mean. Mostly they are misinformed. So I did a bit of research on psychology. Here it is._

_SOCIOPATHY_

_They are usually intelligent and have superficial charm. You can't really rely on them, and mostly they are not sincere when they speak. They have poor judgement and can't learn from social experience, also lacking shame or remorse for their inadequate antisocial behaviour. They are detached from interpersonal relations, mostly apathetic with no major affective reactions._

_PSYCHOPATHY_

_They don't feel emotions deeply, especially social ones like guilt and embarrassment, so they are also unable to care about others. They commonly externalize blame to avoid responsibilization for their own actions. They can go from being insincere to pathological liars, including using this for personal benefit or pleasure. They have a huge sense of self-worth, can be very selfish that could evolve to parasitic lifestyle. They fail at making realistic life plans and following them, in part for the tendency to impulsivity. Finally, the low tolerance to frustration can make them aggressive and violent._

_**Comments** _

_LIZZIE  
You ok?_

 

\-- * --

 

Sherlock seats on a stone bench in a corner of the garden. It’s a sunny day so people walk by satisfied, unaware they were being observed. A couple feed bread to the fish in a fountain pond. The ginger man tries to touch her waist, she declines subtly by getting closer to the fish, camera app open on her phone. She’s having an affair.

 

Two teenage girls are laying on the grass covered by a duvet, gossiping and thinking they people are not paying attention to them, as it’s usual for teenagers. The short-haired brunette says she’s still reading the book she borrowed, but she keeps touching her earlobes. She’s lying, she lost the book somewhere. Probably the tube station.

 

A young woman seats by herself on another bench under the oak trees. Her hand rests un moving on her lower belly, and she’s frowning, looking at the grass, and never at the children playing in the sandbox. Her other hand taps unceasingly at the bench. Sherlock sees her mouth purse minutely. Few weeks into pregnancy, pretty unhappy, heavily considering an abortion.

 

He can see the signals quite clearly right now, which annoys him further. Is it possible for someone to actually gaslight themselves?

 

‘You didn’t want to see.’

 

He doesn’t turn towards Anna-Greta, heavily pregnant beside him. Her voice is mocking and he doesn’t want to see the smugness on her face. 'You're always saying that people don't observe and you went beyond. You didn't even allow yourself to properly _look_. Were you afraid? Are you that pathetic?' she scorns.

 

'I need to categorize better the patterns of human behaviour.' he ignores her, murmuring to himself. 'I got too much data all at once and now it's messed up.'

 

As he speaks the train arrives. He embarks and takes place opposite to the door. More people come after him, occupying the whole car. Anna takes a seat smiling at him, all malice. Tall old man on her right wears full black attire, grieving in the old-fashioned way. Young ginger man at the back keeps smiling softly to himself, eyes downwards, clearly in love, probably for the first time. Blond woman near the window gives a strong sigh while scrolling through her smartphone, angry at coworkers. 

 

'You forgot about hurt. Where is it?' Anna asks looking curiously around.

 

'I didn't.' Sherlock replies simply. 

 

She regards him for a moment and throws her head back to laugh loudly. The old man glares indignantly at her before looking away. 'There you are. You really didn't.' she says showing all her teeth.

 

'I also didn't forget delusion.' he retorts.

 

She scowls at him.

 

'It was one of my first deductions about you, in fact. I just refrained from analysing it further.' he continues, satisfied that she didn't seem to have a bashful answer to that. 'Honestly, it was you who did all the work. If you hadn't shot me, you'd probably still have a husband.'

 

'And a daughter.'

 

'Now that's something nobody can really control.'

 

What he _can_ control now is making John's path of grief go smoothly. He will get rid of everything that could trigger him as soon as possible. After he called it a night, Sherlock monitored John's breathing pattern until he was sure the man in his bed was asleep. It obviously took a while, considering his historical correlation between emotional distress and trouble sleeping, but eventually tiredness won over. After that he stayed a few more minutes just listening to it, because he had thought it was something he couldn't have anymore.

 

He had stayed a week locked in a cell, completely alone with his mind, turning over the fact that he was going to die and he wouldn't hear John's deep regular breath ever again. He was going to suffer physically and mentally until he couldn't take it _again_ (six months, Mycroft had predicted), and there was that.

 

Obviously he tried to cut short by overdosing in the plane. There was no way he could stand a rewind of his time in Serbia. It had been embarrassingly long before he realised the difference between dream and reality, but who could blame him? High as a kite, flying to his death, and suddenly John appears by his side telling him he was coming back? How to measure the likelihood of that?

 

'You actually liked me at that point.' Anna interrupts his reflections.

 

'Surprisingly I did.' he answers. 'Your only fault was being someone else than you showed. Granted, an assassin who was supposed to kill us on more than one occasion, but still.'

 

'If you weren't here right now, I could save my marriage.'

 

_click_

 

'You really couldn't. Delusion, remember?' he looks right at her defiant eyes for the first time. 'Everything that happened in the last months, it was all you.'

 

_tap tap tap_

 

She's not smiling anymore. She tilts her head, exactly like Moriarty used to, which unnerves Sherlock. Moriarty was a spider, but Mary Morstan had been a snake wearing fox skin. The layers were complex for Sherlock to fully understand, considering his limitations in social norms and people's comportment. There was something wrong…

 

He opens his eyes abruptly, not moving from his position on the sofa. The tentative daylight of the early morning is already illuminating the room. John's been sleeping for hours now. Something is wrong. What is it?

 

_tap_

 

He registers the very faint sound of someone stopping in front of the closed living room door. The doorhand starts to turn very slowly. He gets up quietly, quickly checking around for weapons. John's gun is not at the flat. There is the the knife on the mantle. Before he can get there, Anna opens the door and aims a familiar gun with a silencer at him.

 

He jumps to the side of the table and tumbles it towards her. She runs from it, trying to get leverage from behind John's chair. Sherlock blindly grabs the wooden box he had taken from his bedroom when John feel asleep and tosses at her direction. The moment she takes to sidestep it so it doesn't reach her face he springs toward her, intending to get the gun.

 

They collapse against each other. Anna shoots, and the bullet scratches his shoulder on its way to the ceiling. It burns painfully, but he still manages to throw her on the floor and hold her arm straight to her side. She is stronger than she looks, comprehensible in her chosen profession, but still weak and sloppy from being in the hospital. 

 

They toss around but she doesn't release the gun. If that goes on, she will likely find a window of opportunity to shoot him. She was trained and everything for that. His ears are ringing so he is not really listening to anything around him. He makes the mistake of using both hands to take the gun and she elbows his throat and knees his kidney.

 

She succeeds in turning their positions, straddling him and bringing the gun to his face and he can't _believe_ this is the way he's going to die, and John will have to see his bloody body again when a loud crack startles him. Anna slumps on him, blocking his view, and then she is pushed away by no one else than Mrs. Hudson.

 

'Oh Sherlock! Are you okay?' she has a broken glass vase on her right hand, and the left grips Anna's gun the way it's supposed to. A hysterical giggle threatens to come up his throat.

 

'What the fuck is happening here?!'

 

They turn to see John striding to them. He watches the scene with wide eyes, and his cheek has pillow marks. He notices Sherlock's bleeding, and kneels on the floor carelessly of the glass, which makes Mrs. Hudson tut. ' _Christ_ Sherlock, you're hurt!'

 

'Just a scratch, I'm fine. Mind the glass.'

 

John inspects his shoulder fussily. 'Yeah, but we need to put antiseptic and a plaster in it. _Bloody hell_ what is she doing here?'

 

As if in response, she groans and starts to move. Before Sherlock can react John grabs a large piece of glass lying on the carpet and bolts at Anna, trapping her on her back and thrusting the slice to her neck. ' **I will kill right here you bastard** '. Anna gawks at him in shock. Mrs. Hudson gasps.

 

'John, NO. _Stop_!' Sherlock yells at him and jumps to catch his hand away from Anna. 'What are you _doing_? You don't want to kill her!'

 

'Oh I very much want to.' John spits between closed teeth, sounding nothing like himself.

 

'You're angry, I understand, but she can't do anything right now! You'll accomplish nothing from this! You'll hate yourself later!' John is not fighting him but he still very tensed up. 'And besides, Mycroft can't cover another murder without a reason. They will find out about your gun. Do you really want to go to jail _now_?'

 

He glares hard at Anna, who has threads of blood coming out of her forehead, and drops the piece of glass. Sherlock is thinking how they can restrain her when five men in suits enter the room and do it themselves. Mycroft comes right behind.

 

'Sherlock?'

 

Mycroft scrutinizes him, asserting he's not in physical danger. 'I am deeply sorry. She escaped the hospital during a brief moment of mistake. My agent informed me immediately.'

 

Two agents walk by them with Anna cuffed between them both. She's crying, and looks at Sherlock. 'You ruined everything. I hate you so much. I wish I had shot you right that night.'

 

John tenses again beside him, but he just shrugs. She doesn't acknowledge John, and is taken downstairs. They barely notice another agent placing her gun in a plastic bag and following his colleagues.

 

'She won't be a concern anymore.' Mycroft says. 'My contacts in Hungary are already in London. She is going to official facilities at the moment. Do you need to go to the hospital, Sherlock?'

 

'Not really.'

 

'Very well. Please contact me if you need anything.' he leaves as suddenly as he arrived. 

 

'I should get a brush...' Mrs. Hudson starts, looking at the mess on the floor.

 

'No Mrs. H., I'm really sorry you had to go through this. I'll clean myself, don't worry.' John interrupts.

 

'And thank you for saving my life.' Sherlock comments nonchalantly, which makes her smile.

 

'Anytime dear. You know that. Please take care, I'll be downstairs.'

 

After she leaves, closing the door behind her, John sits Sherlock on his chair to tend to his wound. It's really just a scratch, but quite annoying. He slides down the shirt to uncover the damaged side so John can clean it and put on a plaster, as promised. There are already traffic noises on the street, and Mrs. Hudson put the radio on downstairs while making breakfast.

 

John makes tea for them and sits heavily on his chair facing Sherlock when he's done. They sip in silence.

 

'What a mess of a relationship.' John asserts all of a sudden, studying the glass still on the carpet.

 

'Murdering people usually makes things messy.' Sherlock responds, putting his cup aside.

 

To his surprise John snorts. 'The worst thing is that sometimes I forget she's an assassin. It's the whole...' he sighs, now looking back at Sherlock. 'The whole thing. Sometimes her behaviour exasperated and- and frustrated the hell of me, but once I saw what it really was I didn't know how I could stand her at all.'

 

'It's over, John. Don't dwell on it.'

 

'You could have died today.' John replies with a constricted voice.

 

'But I didn't. I could have died many times before. I could have taken Hope's pill, but you were there, as you are here now.'

 

'I know.' he rubs his hand all over his face.

 

They stay in silence once more, but it's not companionable this time. The air is pregnant with John's latent wanting to ask something, and Sherlock feels as if he is at the back of a cab once again, showing off to a friend-to-be stranger.. 'You have questions.' he decides for a nostalgic approach. 

 

John seems a bit disconcerted. 'Was it this dramatic? Your breakup with… Victor Trevor?'

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 'Doing a bit of research, aren't we?'

 

'You don't have to answer with you don't want to.'

 

'I'll do it, but only if you reciprocate. Talk about Sholto.'

 

John looks very much like he would gladly be swallowed by the ground. Sherlock just taps his fingers on his own leg, patiently. John sighs. 'I can't hide anything from you, can I? Ok, I tell you about him.'

 

Sherlock wishes a cigarette right now, but there's no remedy for that. So he straightens his shirt and walks to the kitchen to prepare two reinforced shots of whisky. He gives one to John and settles with his own.

 

'The morning barely started and we're already getting drunk?' John asks with no spite, taking a sip.

 

'Liquid courage.' he answers, doing the same. 'It wasn't messy because it barely existed.'

 

'Hm?'

 

'Victor. He didn't break up with me. He just… left. Couldn't be bothered I assume.' he watches the unlit fireplace, where Magnussen had peed the one time he came to visit.

 

'One of those on and off then?' John looks at him from under his eyelashes. Sherlock realises he's a bit content with that prospect.

 

'Not really. We were… good. Very good.' he says, sheepish. John's demeanour changes immediately. "Ah. He's jealous. Change approach." 'I found out his father had been involved in a criminal organization in the past. I was always suspicious that a country lawyer was so wealthy where no inheritance had place. You could say it was my first case.'

 

John smiles fondly at this. He goes on. 'Victor was incredulous, so he confronted Mr. Trevor. Turns out the man has a stroke and dies instantly.'

 

'Jesus!'

 

'Yes. He didn't communicate with me for days. I called his house - thank god for smartphones, I hate using landline, but there wasn't a way back then - and an aunt told me what happened. She informed me Victor had left for the continent right after the funeral. Didn't hear from him again.'

 

'That doesn't sound very mature.'

 

Sherlock shrugs. 'I don't blame him. Nor was I angry. But I honestly liked him. So. There's that.'

 

John fiddles with his glass. 'How did you two meet?'

 

'Cambridge.' he answers. 'He was volunteering in a dog adoption event, when one of the dogs escaped and bit me. He came to rescue it and offered to help me. I wasn't much sociable but he was very kind and kept talking to me after that. He asked me on a date few months after.'

 

'Sorry about that.'

 

'Hardly your fault.' he takes a sip. 'Your turn.'

 

John finishes the whisky before speaking. 'Nothing actually happened between me and James. He would come to the medical tent at night and we… talked. About everything. I never felt lonely when he was there. There was an occasion when I thought we were going to kiss, but someone entered the tent asking for painkillers and we lost the moment. He was my superior, it would be a mess if people found out.'

 

He adjusts his position on the chair. 'After I came back to London we didn't have much to talk about. We emailed amenities few times, but after the scandal about him he stopped answering. Suppose we couldn't understand each other anymore. But I was happy that he went to my wedding.'

 

'Quite happy.' Sherlock raises an eyebrow to him. 'Anna said that you wouldn't shut up about him at home.'

 

John frowns. 'Well, she was lying. What a novelty. We briefly talked about him twice at most and one of those was about his invitation to the ceremony. I think she saw right away my… feelings. The wedding day I understood that I wanted him to be my friend, nothing more.'

 

'It would be a bit strange wanting amorous activities with another person than your spouse on your wedding day.'

 

John laughs, this time with joy. 'Can't say about that. I spent most of that day thinking about you, so.'

 

Sherlock blinks at him. And blinks once more. John just beams. 'Come here.' he says in a low voice. 

 

Sherlock obeys, finding himself once again sitting in John's lap. When their lips touch he stops thinking about Anna or Sholto or Victor. Mrs. Hudson hums downstairs to a pop song on the radio, the smell of fried bacon and eggs coming up. Everything was fine.

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you all thought you'd seen the last of me. Sorry, sorry, no excuses for this delay! I'll try to post the last chapters as fast as I can so it's finished before series 4 (yes I'm aware of the short time frame. But who doesn't work better under pressure?).
> 
> Come say hello on tumblr! I'm user thanks-mike-stamford.
> 
> See you soon :)


	15. Making love (out of nothing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sees something he had no idea about, and has some of the usual problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION!!! I raised the ranking just to be safe, but the efforts one take to not mention genitalia is astounding.
> 
> As usual, not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language. See any mistakes please point them out!

John hasn't been to breakfast since christmas, so obviously Sherlock doesn't have anything suitable for consumption in the fridge. After they eat at Speedy's John coerces him to help making the living room somewhat presentable again, since there's still glass on the carpet, and the table is turned up which means all the trash on it is on the floor now.

 

The tricky part is cleaning the blood from the carpet. Despite all the incidents that 221B took place, John is surprised to realise none of them involved people bleeding at them. Even when Moriarty paid Sherlock a visit the main activity was drinking tea and playing mysterious around terrible riddles. 

 

(John actually wishes he could have arrived sooner. Perhaps things were different if he had just punched the man silly.)

 

He quickly notices he should have scrubbed the blood out while it was still wet because right now it seems the stain is forever. He complains about it, to which Sherlock doesn't seem even remotely fazed. He abandoned cleaning long ago to reorganize his papers into the usual indexed mess. 

 

About lunchtime he receives a call from Mycroft. 'Took him long enough.' is all Sherlock has to say about before disappearing to his room. John glares at his back and answer his phone.

 

'Hello, Mycroft. Any problem?'

 

_'Solving them, in fact. I have arranged the paperwork necessary to annul your marriage. But you need to come over to sign everything.'_

 

'Oh. That's… very thoughtful. Thank you.'

 

_'In case you were wondering, I also covered the fees, and a car will pick you up as soon as you're ready to leave.'_

 

'You really didn't need to pay for-'

 

_'Hardly a problem. I'm waiting. See you later.'_

 

He hangs up before John can say anything, which is for best because he doesn't know what to say. The initial £550 for the annulment application would be a brutal cut to his budget. He learned to quit his pride in these matters long ago when he asked Sherlock for money right at the beginning of their friendship. 

 

Sherlock appears again fully dressed to leave. 'It just crossed my mind that you could possibly not want my presence while dealing with marriage issues, will that be a problem?'

 

'Obviously you already know.' he mutters. 'You know what? I'd prefer if you were with me if you don't mind.'

 

\-- * --

 

Since Mary Morstan never existed, his marriage is not valid. Falsified identity documentation is not foreseen on guides to fill a nullity petition, which makes quite difficult to answer the questions of the form they give to him. There should be an "Others" blank space option. How can he explain that his wife had a fake name and a not-so-former assassin career? It would be much easier to divorce under the justificative that she was abusive and violent.

 

He raises his point, but the fact that false documentation makes the marriage invalid forbids a divorce process, as the solicitor Mycroft put in his case affirms. He ends up marking the "The Petitioner/Respondent did not validly consent to its formation, whether in consequence of duress, mistake, unsoundness of mind or otherwise" option. 

 

It's strange to fill the respondent's space. He snorts at the irony of the question "The Respondent’s current name is" for someone with a myriad of names. The current one she was using? Mary Watson. Her real one? Anna-Greta Regina Agnes. "Current one" is indifferent to its legal veracity?

 

He hurriedly skips the "Details of children" section.

 

He talks to the solicitor about selling their house. Sherlock is incredibly bored through everything, but stays quiet, typing fast on his phone. He understands the application is being led delicately to avoid revealing information on him and Sherlock. Magnussen isn't mentioned, but John knows Mycroft is working to keep it unrevealed during the process. The folder Sherlock showed him at the hospital, many months ago, comes in hand.

 

From Anna-Greta in Hungary to Priscille Bonnay in Belgium to Lidiya Polzina in Russia to Rachel Bailey in the United States to Mary Morstan in Ireland. Verified 34 homicides, between other illegal activities. Attempted murder against one Sherlock Holmes. There wasn't even a chance the court wouldn't just accept his application. Due to the circumstances it was possible that it would even take less time than the usual.

 

'We could buy Mrs. Hudson another vase.' Sherlock suggests when they finally are able to leave.

 

They choose what Sherlock perceives as an adequate glass vase. John complements it with a bunch of pink carnations. He proposes going to dinner, and Sherlock accepts. It's sort of the end of a case, after all. They opt for a greek restaurant and it feels so much like old times, like the last three years never happened, that it takes a bit of John's breath away.

 

'This is absolutely lovely, boys! Thank you!' Mrs. Hudson exclaims at the sight of the vase.

 

'Ta, Mrs. H., it's nothing.' he replies with a smile. 'We're coming up, good-night!'

 

Sherlock is waving a bit. John is reminded that he didn't get any sleep last night, and who knows for how long this week. 'Hey, go take your shower and I'll look to your wound before you sleep.'

 

It says tons that Sherlock just nods faintly and complies. John feels impossibly fond of him, waiting outside until he hears the water coming to a halt. He enters the loo and lets the door open so the steam escapes. Sherlock is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, wearing a towel only, and looking more awake but still tired. John gets his kit and goes to inspect him.

 

'It's just a scratch but it will bother you like hell, since the path of skin is gone.' he says while cleaning again with antiseptic.

 

'I'm aware. The worst thing will be itching of course, not waiting for that.' Sherlock replies. John smiles, and attaches another dressing to his shoulder.

 

Sherlock, impatient as always, lumps forward to get to his feet. John is still angled down and he sees the flashes of white. 'Sherlock, what is that on your back?'

 

The detective actually _flinches_ and tries to move away, but John holds him firmly and turn his back to his own view. Sherlock's shoulders get very tense.

 

His back is full of scars. Old ones he's sure he's never seen before. Scratch that, he's sure they weren't _there_ before. Or at least before Sherlock's… fake death. He tries to remember once he's seen Sherlock's bare back after he returned, but his mind comes blank. In fact, he now realises that he's been actively avoiding parading his bare back. Last time he entered the bathroom with Sherlock showering in it was right after the tarmac, and he had put on a towel.

 

The scars are clearly result of violence. He can even a see a tiny cigarette burn near the waistline. They follow no particular pattern, but John's trained medical eye detects that they were quite painfully produced. 'When this happened?' he asks finally, barely trusting his voice not to crack.

 

'Serbia. While I was away. It's not important, John.' he tells him stiffly and tugs again to get free. This time John lets him go. Sherlock grasps his hanged up t-shirt and puts it on, shifting as if to leave the room.

 

John calls him. 'Please, Sherlock.'

 

Sherlock stops at the doorway, turns back and leans against it, taking a look at him. He sighs. 'I was captured there. It wasn't the first time during those two years, but it was the first I really hadn't counted on. I stayed there for weeks. I believe I would have been able to slip away in a week or so, but Mycroft went to get me.' 

 

He had been gazing the linoleum, but he lifts his eyes to John's again with a trace of amusement. 'For once he did legwork, can you believe it? I would have made a bit more fun of it if I were in a better state. He brought me back to London, and there was it.'

 

Something sparks in John's memory. 'You told me you went to meet me first thing after you arrived. You were still hurt?'

 

'It did take a little while to heal, but-'

 

'I threw you at the floor.' John cuts him. 'I forced you on your back and took a beat at you. For the state of your scars you should have been a mess back then.'

 

Sherlock just shrugs, and a lump allocate in John's throat. He breathes slowly trying to keep the wetness away from his eyes. 'I'm sorry. I didn't know. I shouldn't have anyway.'

 

'John, stop saying sorry all the time. Save it for when you can be really blamed for.' Sherlock chastises him, sounding a little annoyed, but John knows better. 'You told me in Baskerville, remember? Don't overdue your apologies.'

 

He doesn't fully agree that the things happening are not his fault, but he accepts it. 'Ok.' Then he perceives the scene. They are both in the bathroom just after Sherlock takes a shower, and is currently in a semi-nakedness situation. He remembers thinking about what Janine had that he didn't. He takes a deep breath, gathering more courage than he would believe it was necessary, and stare right into Sherlock's eyes.

 

'Are you going to bed now?'

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes a fraction. 'Yes. Why?'

 

Deep breath. 'Can I go with you?'

 

He waits for Sherlock's mind gears warm up a bit. And… there it was, the blinking. 'Ahn… sure.' he clears his throat, looking suddenly very shy. 'Please do.'

 

Heart skipping a bit, he follows Sherlock to his bedroom. This was the third time he would sleep there. The first being when the detective was in the hospital again after revealing the truth about Anna ("She's away now, forever."), the second being last night, after spending an embarrassingly long amount of time hugging Sherlock because he is the most perfect human being, and now.

 

They do say third time's a charm. He's not alone this occasion.

 

John quickly undresses to his vest and pants, and notices Sherlock is still wearing a towel around his hips and a t-shirt, looking ridiculous and a bit unsure about the proceedings. John feels like doing some blinking himself.

 

'Hey.' he calls softly, stepping into Sherlock's personal space.

 

He settles his hands on Sherlock's waist, stands on tiptoes and kisses him. Sherlock responds putting his arms around John's neck, and isn't it the loveliest thing. John is absolutely ecstatic when the kiss evolves to a full snog. He recedes an inch. 'Can we lie down?' 

 

Sherlock nods, so he delicately pushes him to the bed, pulling the duvet back over them. They get as close as possible to each other in the middle of the bed, intertwining legs and holding each other tight, kissing deep and slowly. John's heart is hammering against his chest, he prays hard that he doesn't die right here. He buries his hand in Sherlock's glorious curls and moans himself in pleasure of the sensation, making Sherlock shiver all over. He ventures his other hand under Sherlock's shirt, savouring all the silky skin.

 

He descends his hand and finds the band of the towel, which is still around Sherlock's hips and probably dampening the mattress. Feeling very much like a bold teenager, he asks 'Can I?'

 

Sherlock does a breathless sound quite satisfying. 'Yes.'

 

He lifts out the towel and tosses it on the floor. Oh yes. The Butt. He actually rises on his elbow to take a look. It have felt like forbidden land to be explored since he almost got a glimpse of them at Buckingham Palace. The fine cut of his trousers always accentuates the roundness and it _has_ to be on purpose. He squeezes a cheek, and Sherlock giggles. It's joyful, so he does it again.

 

'John, what are you doing?' he asks between giggles.

 

'Don't ask the obvious.' he answers, redirecting his mouth to the long neck.

 

'Ah-'

 

'You were not surprised about Sholto. Him being a man and all.' he observes while exploring The Neck. Also making a note not to mention to Sherlock how he refers to his body parts in his mind.

 

'Of course I knew you were bisexual. I just didn’t know if…' he retracts minutely in the bed. "If you had interest in me." was left in subtext. John is a bit heartbroken by that.

 

'Hey. The first day, at Angelo's? I _was_ hitting on you. But you said you were married to your work...'

 

'I was.' Sherlock bites his bottom lip. 'When you asked.' he looks at him from under his eyelashes. 

 

'Oh.' 

 

They go full snog again, John can't help himself stop grabbing Sherlock's arse here and again. 'Take off our clothes?' he murmurs, to which Sherlock sighs 'Ok.'. It's exciting being completely naked next to him, no barriers between the skin.

 

He wishes the bedroom light was on to see everything, but doesn't suggest they kick off the duvet, as Sherlock seems very comfortable with it. In fact, he's completely comfortable as they are now, not making any moves to increase friction or, well, more intense stimulation. 'Sherlock...' he wanders his hand down the man's thigh, trying to make a point. Sherlock breathes on him for a moment and responds by doing the same.

 

Relieved that he didn't make wrong assumptions, John gladly takes him, Sherlock mirroring his actions. He doesn't appear inexperienced (there _was_ Victor Trevor after all, and he even said it was _very good_. Ok. Focus.), but is being kinda coy. John thinks it's very endearing. 

 

They do get sparked, John gives in to that. But after some time it's clear the activity is not exactly going anywhere for both of them. He starts to get frustrated, tries to be faster, rougher, urging Sherlock to do the same. It reaches a point that the detective exclaims 'Ouch, John!'.

 

He stops and sits up, fine sweat covering his brow. 'Fucking shit!' 

 

'John, calm down.'

 

'But I'm ruining this! _Damn_ , I can't today, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' he scrubs a hand on his wet forehead.

 

Sherlock stays where he is, but splays a hand on John's thigh. 'Stop apologising, we talked about it. Do we really need it? I'm liking… just this'

 

John looks at him. He seems very small under the duvet.

 

'Look. I'm not… a very sexual person. You'll find that many times I won't even be in the mood. But I like being with you. So whatever you want, whatever you can… it works for me.'

 

He covers Sherlock's hand with his own. 'What do you like?' he asks gently.

 

'I like to touch. And to be touched.' his ears get scarlet, which John can see thanks to the dim light coming through the window. His heart pounds fast.

 

'Oh, that I can do.' he says, tucking a curl behind his red ear.

 

It's probably a bad habit that he always runs after the ending of the moment. As it turns out, not having to worry about climaxing is very relaxing. He and Sherlock kiss everywhere, caress everywhere, and they don't rush. In a moment of inspiration, John turns Sherlock to lie on his stomach and proceeds to explore his whole back.

 

It's absolutely lovely to kiss every inch of the large shoulder blades while constantly rubbing his lower back, nuzzling his nose on Sherlock's nape. He finds himself quite fond of the back of Sherlock's knees, as they show to be very sensitive. He turns Sherlock back, taking in the untamed state of his hair and can't contain a grin.

 

'Let me do something.' Sherlock complains, John kisses the wrinkles on the top of his nose. 'I'm just lying here.'

 

He covers the body under his, kissing his jawline. Sherlock holds him tight, arms across his back. 'Let me. I've been wanting _so long_ '.

 

Sherlock sort of massages him while John kisses all over his collarbone. He then rests his face on Sherlock's chest and stays there, listening to his heartbeat, head coming up and down with his breathing movements. It's very soothing, and he remembers both of them were tired.

 

'Tell me about how you met Mrs. Hudson. What were you doing in Florida?' he closes his eyes to enhance his other sensations.

 

Sherlock mumbles about Florida and Mr. Hudson's drug cartel. John feels the vibration of his voice through his chest. Sherlock's hand tangles on John's shorter hair. He starts to drift off and thus mix things. John somewhat understood parts of the Montague Street phase, which was apparently horrible, but after that he cuts himself more and more until he finally stays silent. John glimpses at him: sleeping soundly.

 

He puts his head down again, closing his eyes once more and smiling nonstop.

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * title is obviously based on the song Making love (out of nothing at all), from Air Supply. Very good song.
> 
> Sorry John. Not really sorry.
> 
> It seems this promise I'll keep (finishing before series 4).
> 
> By the way, no, I didn't watch the new teaser. I accidentally saw stuff about some parts of it and I was so anxious I had to avoid tumblr and twitter for days. I'm better now, but still checking them with caution. And yet first time I opened twitter after first thing I see is THAT AD AND PIC. A very good meta on tumblr calmed me a bit.
> 
> I don't really have anyone to talk (scream) about series 4, so if someone wants to chat, come talk to me on tumblr! user thanks-mike-stamford
> 
> See ya :)


	16. Trust Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Given the shitty year he's been having, John is not surprised that things haven't finished bollocksing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there is anxiety involved here, in case it upsets anyone.
> 
> not betaed, not brit-picked, not first languages, please point out any mistakes!

It's only in the next morning that the penny finally drops about everything. It's not good.

 

\-- * --

 

He estimates it's about 3am when something wakes him up. At some point in the night he had rolled out from Sherlock, snuggling by his side. He listens carefully to determine what bothered him. He feels Sherlock twitching a bit where they are touching, and opens his eyes to look at him.

 

After his eyesight gets used to the dark, he analyses the sleeping detective. He would want to scrutinize him better for the first time and perhaps be a little soppy about it, but something definitely isn't right. His eyes are moving rapidly behind his lids, and the jerks, while not aggressive, are visible. What really makes John decide for waking him is the locked jaw. He gently pokes his shoulder.

 

'Sherlock?' he tries. 'Hey, Sherlock!'

 

The man opens his eyes wide and intakes a huge breath. They stare at each other bewildered for a moment, and then Sherlock turns his naked back to John, crossing his arms tightly over his own heaving chest. John regards the scarred back in front of him. Sherlock has always been on the thin side, thus his ribs protuberate lightly over his skin, now also pulled by the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders.

 

Sherlock muffles a sob.

 

John pushes the shock away in favour of being pragmatic for now. If Sherlock currently doesn't want to face him, John won't make him do it. He gets as close as possible to him, spreading himself all over Sherlock's behind, burying his nose in the tantalizing nape. He wants to squeeze him hard but is afraid he will feel claustrophobic, so settles for resting his hand at the curve of the bony hip.

 

He holds him like this for the whole duration of the weeping, which Sherlock persists in trying to keep down. John doesn't say platitudes or hush sounds, because is futile. He's an expert in nightmares after all. When he finally calms down a couple minutes later John clasps his shoulder. 'Feeling better now?'

 

'Yes.' the response comes faint.

 

'Can you turn back to me?'

 

Sherlock shifts, but prefers to tuck his face in John's neck. John simply puts his arms all around the detective and doesn't comment on the humid feeling he's leaving on his skin. 'Do you have these often? Was it… about our conversation in the bathroom?' he asks tenderly.

 

'Not really.' The answer is not hesitant, so John believes him. 'And I have nightmares now and then, as everyone else. I mostly don't have a sleeping pattern so it's hard to tell.'

 

'You don't have a sleeping pattern or you avoid sleep so you don't have nightmares?'

 

The silence that follows is quite telling. John sighs. 'I've been there too, you know. When I came back to London my sleep was so erratic sometimes I didn't even bother. I understand. Want to… talk about it?'

 

Sherlock shrugs. 'Lately is mostly Magnussen.'

 

'Well, he was one of creepiest persons I've known.' he opts for a facetious tone. 'Quite nightmare material.' Sherlock snorts at this.

 

'He was. But-' he cleans his throat. 'I've never killed anyone before.' he says in a really small voice. John blinks.

 

'But your… Those two years, taking apart Moriarty's web? I thought...' he trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

 

'Not really.' Sherlock repeats. 'When it was possible I handled those people to the concerned authorities. Usually the local ones, but a handful happened to be wanted by Interpol and likewise.'

 

'And when it wasn't possible?'

 

'Mycroft took care of it.'

 

'Of course he did. So… Magnussen?'

 

'Yes.' he doesn't offer more.

 

'Why didn't you tell me?' he asks while twisting a lock of hair in his finger.

 

'You were otherwise preoccupied.'

 

John holds him more firmly. He's been submitted through a lot of pain and cruelness, but it's what he did to someone else that haunts him at night. John killed a cabbie after a day he met him, and he had the best night in ages. And people have the guts to call Sherlock Holmes a sociopath. 'You're not a murderer, Sherlock. You are and incredible human being, better than most people in fact.'

 

Sherlock doesn't answer, but grips John's sides. The stay awake, breathing each other, for a long time.

 

\-- * --

John takes a shower and has a panic attack.

 

The thing is, he tries to rationalize it later, in two days he went from married and expecting a daughter to living in 221B again with no expectations of a child and having a murderous ex-wife (is it ex if technically his marriage never existed?) who is probably presently being sent to a psychiatric prison in Hungary, but not before trying to kill his current… _something_. His whole world shifted and he has barely been able to sleep yet

 

On the other hand he comes to truly realise that his beautiful lovely _something_ has been sparring him of so much since he came back. John had told him to fuck off and he did, and yet he ran straight to a bonfire to save him. John made him be his best man knowing he hated these things, and the man took care of the minimal details, even warning off his fiancé's ex who still nurtured feelings for her. His wife actively shoots him in the heart, and his priority is to unveil the truth to John in the most trustworthy fashion. He hid his own problems to John could resolve his, without asking for nothing.

 

He goes to bed with John even if he doesn't like sex. He would have accepted his daughter at 221B because he knew it would make John happy. He turns his back to John and cries on his own.

 

The shower is already running cold by the time he vaguely notices he's hyperventilating. 

 

He spent months regretting the pregnancy, and when he finally sets his mind and heart to it, it's taken away. It's his fault, it's his fault. He caused it, he wanted it and it happened.

 

Sherlock doing anything he wants just to please him because John's a selfish prick who will take and take never give. Everything they have is not real and honestly how could it be. It's just a figment of his imagination. Everyone betrays him, he can't trust anyone, he can't do anything right. It's always his fault.

 

His head is foggy and the tub starts to move, making him fall to his knees on the wet floor. An automatic part of his brain guides him to cover his mouth with his hands in a shell shape, and breath into the tiny space created. 

 

It takes some time but he starts to breath properly. His heart is still accelerated and his chest hurts like he was punched. He unconsciously turns off the shower, dries himself and gets dressed. He leaves the bathroom still floating in a cloud of uncertainty, so he doesn't spot the signs that Sherlock is still distracted and presumably stressed, but trying to conceal it of the world.

 

Sherlock is surprisingly putting the coffee on, fully dressed, so he goes to the bread and toaster. They sit across at the table, Sherlock only gulping a large mug of coffee and scrolling down his phone while John eats.

 

'I can help you with your things.' Sherlock breaks the silence.

 

'What things?' 

 

'Your personal stuff from the house, to bring here.'

 

'Why would I bring them here?' he frowns at Sherlock.

 

'To move in.' Sherlock says in his "you're an idiot" tone. 'Aren't you, moving in?'

 

_it's your fault, it's not real, you made him cry_

 

'I don't know.'

 

Sherlock doesn't keep the flinch from his face. 'What do you mean?'

 

'It means that I don't know if living here is a good idea!' he snaps. Sherlock's eyes are wide as saucers, his mouth hanging open a bit.

 

'So you changed your mind about everything then?' he asks constricted.

 

John sighs and puts his breakfast aside and folds his hands on the table. 'Look, it's time to get back to reality. Anna is gone, and you don't need to coddle me anymore.' 

 

'Coddle you?' Sherlock's whole face is a question mark, but the narrowed eyes indicate he's already losing his patience. 'How on earth am I coddling you?'

 

'How? Everything that you've done since this shit started is shielding me from the big bad world! I've been literally sucking your energy for months!' he starts to speak a little more loud then he should.

 

'It pains me to say this but I'm very confused by your mixed signals.' Sherlock hisses. 'I've done no such thing, but let's hypothesize you're right. Why do you think I went through all this, then, care to enlighten me?'

 

'Because I asked.'

 

Sherlock looks as if he's been slapped in the face.

 

'Because you asked? So for you what I wanted never counted for me?'

 

'Well, since you came back you did a lot of things you didn't want to just because of me. What did you want me to think? I know you… care about me, ok?'

 

'I care about you.' he repeats flatly. John is suddenly feeling like he lost all control of the conversation. The foggy sensation in his head is dissipating but he still can't see clear. 'So I care about you, and then I decided to, I don't know, comfort you?'

 

'... No.'

 

'Oh my god!' Sherlock stands up. 'That's what you thought!'

 

John gets up as well. He still doesn't have leverage to keep the conversation face to face, but sitting down would be an extra add to it. 'I thought sex alarmed you!'

 

'Are you really throwing at me an argument _Mycroft_ used to humiliate me _years_ ago?' he questions in a high-pitched voice.

 

'From my experience it doesn't seem he was wrong!' John retorts and immediately regrets it. Lucidity is finally rising and his pulse is fast.

 

Sherlock blinks once at him. 'You know what, John? Piss off.'

 

Quicker than John could react, Sherlock strides to the stairs, taking his coat haphazardly from the hanger. He hears the front door opening and closing (not slammed), but when he finds the strength to move his legs and run after him, he is no longer seen on the street.

 

\-- * --

 

He calls the clinic to quit his position. He can't stand the place anyway. When the receptionist tries to ask him about Anna he hangs up. His CV will probably need updating once again so he can start looking for a new job. He wants to consult Sherlock on the matter, but his phone stayed on the kitchen table when he stormed out.

 

It's not an urgency, since the solicitor guaranteed him his house had a high requested profile so it wouldn't take long to be sold. Having that money on his bank account would make things very comfortable for a while. In addition he decides for including all the furniture in the negotiation. The solicitor had told him it would enhance the aggregated value of the property, which is always good news. 

 

He takes the tube and a bus to get to the suburbs. Anna's car is parked outside, and he's surprised he had forgotten about that. He needs to organize the documentation and send to Mycroft so he can sell it too. He can't drive, and it's impossible to have a car in central London, so there's no point in keeping it.

 

Entering the empty house is strange. He doesn't really feel like he's been living here for so long. Anna had chosen almost everything, and he didn't pay much thought in it. After leaving Baker Street when Sherlock faked his death he actually moved twice. When they started dating he had been in a horrible kitchenette with a single bed, so he never invited her to his place. He never really felt like this house was his, not like 221B, so he has no idea why he considered telling Sherlock he wasn't moving back in.

 

The living room is stinking with old vomit. Was it only two days since that? Felt like ages definitely. He ignores the thing and searches the kitchen for the cardboard boxes he's sure they still have. A bunch of them in hand, he migrates to the bedroom, and starts to remove the contents of the wardrobe. He separates mechanically his possessions from Anna's, which are very few, he comes to realise. It occurs to him that Ezster must have come to get most of her things to take with her. He texts Mycroft to confirm it, just in case.

 

He returns to the kitchen to get some of the huge black garbage bags. He is pragmatic about throwing out everything he deems unnecessary. His bike has been unused for months, and he actually takes a moment to think about it. He wants to stay with it but he has to arrange a place to store it at 221B. Perhaps at 221C? It's not like the place will be rented, and he can add something monthly to Mrs. Hudson in exchange to it.

 

He is gathering up the courage to clean the days-old vomit when his phone rings. He answers without even looking at the screen, thinking Sherlock had come back home already. 'Yes, hello?'

 

_'John! Sorry I didn't call before! Heard you two were attacked yesterday? Are you okay?'_

 

He swallows his disappointment. 'Yeah Greg, sort of. But we are… fine.'

 

 _'You don't sound like you are fine.'_ Greg replies, suspicious. Policeman after all.

 

'We are… physically fine.'

 

_'Oh. Trouble in paradise then? Are you at home?'_

 

'No, I… sorry, how much do you know?'

 

_'Only that there was an emergency at the flat, don't know any details.'_

 

He takes a deep breath. 'Are you free right now? We could have lunch.'

 

_'Great idea. In fact it's my day off. Arrived home about 6am, just woke up. How about a pub?'_

 

\-- * --

 

They meet at a pub midway for both of them. Greg is already at a table, sipping a beer and pecking some chips. John gets another round for both of them. 'You'll need the extra beer, trust me.'

 

'All right, mate.' Greg raises his brow to him, accepting the beer. 'Gimme your best shot.'

 

'Mary tried to kill Sherlock yesterday, she was also the one who shot him months ago, her name is in fact Anna-Greta, she wasn't really pregnant and she's going to a prison in Hungary right now.'

 

Greg holds the beer midway to his mouth in the air, frozen and staring at him, mouth agape. 'You're not kidding. This is not a joke.'

 

'Nope.' he sighs, drinking, picking up a fish.

 

'Holy Jesus! How? When? I don't even know what to ask!'

 

'And I don't even know how to start! Basically she lied about everything. She was a criminal, she even worked for Moriarty before Sherlock faked his death!'

 

'And you knew all the time? Well, Sherlock knew for sure. He let you marry her!'

 

'Surprisingly he didn't. He only found out that night at the Magnussen tower, and she shot him in the heart for his troubles.'

 

'So… that's why you were at his flat for months. But you came back to her, why?'

 

'Not really… Let's say I did lie after that. I wanted to be with me daughter.'

 

'But you said she wasn't pregnant.'

 

'She was, but she lost the baby shortly after I came back to Baker Street. She never told me and pretended she was still pregnant so I went back home. Two days ago she had a gastric emergency and the whole thing was uncovered.'

 

'Your life could be a plot on East Enders, honestly.' Greg cleans the sweat on his face with a paper napkin. 'But is everything over now? You said she was going to prison.'

 

'Yes. Luckily we found enough evidence on her for a life sentence back at her home country. Yesterday I filled the marriage annulment form.'

 

'Cheers. Welcome to the ex-husbands team.' he offers his glass and they toast. They help themselves to more chips.

 

'So now I get the picture, let's get back to the real problem. You had a fight with Sherlock?'

 

'Yeah. I...' he rubs his face. 'I said some things I shouldn't. My anxiety also got in the way and I backed up from our plans without _actually_ having the intention to do so.'

 

'Come on, it's Sherlock. He's not easily offended.'

 

'He was pretty offended, I guarantee. He stormed out of the flat.'

 

Greg whistles. 'Sounds bad. Not trying to be nosy, but what could you have possibly said that he was that angry?'

 

John cleans his throat. 'Recently we… ah… changed the nature of our relationship.'

 

Greg blinks at him. John takes a sip from the beer. The DI laughs aloud and play punches his shoulder. 'I can't believe it! Bloody _finally_! You're even speaking like him! Been exchanging lots of words you two, ahn?' he smirks, making John flush.

 

'Shut up. Well, there's that.'

 

'So by plans you mean relationship related right?'

 

'Yep.'

 

'Relationship problems come around, John. And you've been friends longer than you've been… dating?'

 

'I don't know. He can perfectly not want anything with me anymore.'

 

Greg gives him a _look_. 'John, I watched him confess at your wedding because he didn't know what else to say. It was the most heartbreaking thing I've ever seen. He won't just "not want anything with you" because of one fight.'

 

He wants to bang his head on the table. 'Don't remind me of that. I was torn during the whole thing.'

 

'It's over. Time to resolve this. He's been over relationship problems before, and you are actually present for making up.'

 

John looks up at him. 'You're talking about Victor. You _knew_ him, I didn't remember that.'

 

'Yeah, only by the end.' Greg side-eyes him suspiciously. 

 

'What?'

 

'You really think it's a good idea to hear about his ex-boyfriend?'

 

'The curiosity has been killing me.' he groans. 'He told me about the "break-up" but nothing more.'

 

The inspector snatches the last crispy chips on the plate. 'You'd never say they would break up to be honest. I was detective sergeant at the time, and he harassed me in his typical way about how the DI of my unit was terrible at finding culprits of murders. He got most of it from the news, it was astonishing. But his hints were surprisingly insightful, and people started to pay attention at me for them, so I visited sherlock at his crappy flat in Soho now and then. Sometimes Victor was there.'

 

'What did you think of him?' he asks, already feeling jittery.

 

'Charismatic, you'd say.' Greg looks thoughtful. 'We barely spoke to each other. But Sherlock was better at being sociable when he was around. And he seemed happy. Until Trevor senior died and everything went to shit.'

 

John bites his tongue.

 

'Sherlock reacted poorly to Victor leaving. I can't attest, but I guess he tried to contact him for months. He was depressed and started using class A drugs. I don't think he started only then, but I'm sure he hadn't been using during the couple months I knew him. His social skills were worse than ever. Some talking about my promotion was developing in the corridors, so I gave him an ultimatum. He stopped using and I would put him on real cases.'

 

John exhales, not sure when he had held his breath. 'It worked?'

 

He puts down the empty beer. 'Could say so. He had a motivation at least. Took months, and he relapsed a couple times, but I think he managed very well. When you came by he really was clean.'

 

'He relapsed recently.' John says dejectedly. 'When I was away for my honeymoon.'

 

Greg grimaces. 'He's highly susceptible to emotional damage. He just tries so hard to hide it.'

 

'If Victor's father situation never happened they could still be together for all I know.' he says sullen.

 

'Who knows. But we can't change the past, only the future.' they exchange incredulous stares. 'Yeah, I'm a bit tipsy already, but you see: Victor is not coming back. Sherlock had been so sure he wouldn't that he gave up. He liked him a lot, I give you that, but he moved worlds for you. He is actually _angry_ , not reactionless, so you just have to go there and get him back. Apologizing for whatever you said is a good idea too.'

 

'He's the most important person in the world to me.' John replies, knowing he's tipsy too, otherwise he would never say that aloud to someone else.

 

'Did you tell him that? Because for such a smart man like his highness, he needs things like this spelled out.'

 

'I never… we didn't… Oh my god.' he suddenly realises they never really really _talked_ about them. Relationship-wise. What could be crossing Sherlock's mind?

 

'Well, you know what to do, mate. Go catch your detective before he runs away.'

 

\-- * --

John had been avoiding this too long. He toyed with the locked box a few times but never intending to open it. The closest call had been at the tarmac, and he was so grateful that Sherlock backed off at the time. But not now.

 

He doesn't sit at the sofa of his mind bungalow, pushing it until it was in front of the cabinet in the corner instead. He climbs it to reach the top shelf, where he deliberately the box so he wouldn't be able to pick up easily. It's locked as always, and he had convinced himself that he lost the key, but he stops being dishonest. They key is inside his pocket, had been there all along.

 

He unfastens the lock and looks right inside it.

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that all my talking scenes are basically people sitting down, argh. 
> 
> As I am posting this my timeline on twitter is full of new spoilers thanks to a new trailer in czech apparently so I'm running away from it. Less than two weeks to go!
> 
> There will be another chapter and an epilogue :) 
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr! user thanks-mike-stamford. See ya!
> 
> EDIT: I realised a continuity mistake in the last part and edited out!


	17. Any kind of love is worth the song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get past the miscommunication bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mind the drug use tag.
> 
> At the end of the last chapter John sends a text and Sherlock answers it. I deleted that after posting, because I remembered Sherlock didn't have his phone with him. Sorry! 
> 
> Not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language. Any mistakes let me know!

_'Yes Sally, I'll go to the Chief Inspector tomorrow first thing. Yes, I'm aware. Ok. Great job by the way, see you tomorrow. Bye.'_

_Lestrade hangs up on Donovan, rubbing his hand on his tired face. Sherlock is actually embarrassed by the whole situation. 'I didn't mean for you to get in trouble.' he says, internally expecting the inspector to dismiss it and yell at him. Lestrade just sighs._

_'Nah, I overreacted anyway.'_

_'It will be cut from your budget.'_

_'Yep.' he exclaims. 'What is done is done. Just use better wording next time.' he pockets his phone and goes to sit at the living room table in front of Sherlock, where he is surrounded by screwed up balls of paper, other sheets that were clearly messed drafts and incredibly a book on best man's speeches. He didn't know such a thing existed, but he supposes people always know there is someone who would buy their rubbish. 'Ok. What do we have here?'_

_'I'm supposed to conduct a_ speech _at John's wedding!' he spits the word as if its mere existence is offensive. 'I have no idea what to say in front of mostly complete strangers.'_

_'Look, you just have to say nice things about the couple and marriage in general. Some jokes about them are expected too, but nothing offensive for christ sake!'_

_Sherlock groans in frustration, throwing the book away. Lestrade winces at that. 'Why all the instructions are vague and generic like that? I could write anything to anyone else in the planet with "nice things" in mind.' he does the quote marks in the air aggressively-mocking. 'How am I presumed to say something to_ John _specifically?'_

_Lestrade puts aside that Sherlock is taking Mary out of the equation. Make it easier for the lad. 'How about that, you draft what you'd like to say about John to people. Forget about the wedding context. Just topic whatever comes to mind. I'll give you two minutes.' he sets a timer on his phone, placing it on the table._

_He watches as Sherlock scribbles furiously on a notebook, pulling it to himself as the set time is over. Sherlock's handwriting is horrible, but he distinguishes a few themes in bullet points._

_\- John is amazing_  
\- John is a good doctor  
\- John is human  
\- John is the best person I know 

_Lestrade reads and rereads, then steals a surreptitious glance at the consulting detective, who is waiting expectantly for his verdict. He never looked so young, and "bite me" he thinks, so vulnerable. "Oh, Sherlock."_

_'This is nice. Very nice indeed. But you might want to include something about marriage, since it's a wedding ceremony.' he hands the notebook back. Sherlock frowns for a second, and adds another bullet point. Under the previous one now there is:_

_\- Marriage is an awful institution and I can't approve_

_'... Right. Ahn… Sherlock, I'm not sure he'll react well if you say that you don't approve of marriage in his wedding ceremony.'_

_'But I don't approve of it, why does the occasion matter?'_

_'For instance, he'll probably be cross at you saying he's doing something wrong in front of everyone.'_

_'Gabriel, of course I respect John's decisions above everything, my opinion on the issue is not important.'_

_'It's Greg.'_

_'What?'_

_'My nam-, nevermind. Look, if you must say this, do it first thing. All these positive ones go after it, so people will remember only what you said last.'_

_'So I should save the better statements for closure?'_

_'Yes, surely the impact will be bigger.'_

_'Great advice. Let me correct it.'_

_'Include some stories mixed in too! Of your cases together, I bet you have lots of funny stuff to tell.'_

_He stays at Baker Street for hours, helping Sherlock how to better compile everything. The full text he will finish later, but Lestrade has an idea about how it will sound, and how huge it will be, trusting Sherlock to speak a mile a minute like he swallowed the bloody dictionary. But at the end of the day it was basically a love letter. He remembers Victor Trevor._

_'Sherlock… are you going to be ok?'_

_He doesn't look up from the notebook. 'Of course. Surprisingly you helped me a lot, Gary.'_

_'I'm not talking about the speech.'_

_Now the not looking-up is clearly on purpose. 'I have no idea what you're talking about, then.'_

_'You're lying.'_

_Sherlock presses his lips in a thin straight line, crosses something out of the text he's composing. 'There's nothing else I can do. He would hate me otherwise.'_

_'He wouldn't hate you, Sherlock. He forgave you faking your death at him-'_

_'That was necessary.'_

_'I know. But I really think you should talk to him-'_

_'I won't ruin everything. I don't matter on this. It's about him. Enough of this, now.'_

_Lestrade regards him. 'Ok. But I'm here to help you if you need me.'_

_He finally lifts his gaze to him. His expression is unexpectedly unguarded, a soft sadness around his eyes. 'I know. Thank you.' he shifts back to his usual posture. 'If you're finished you can leave.'_

_He just smiles in response. And does leave because it's late and he made a mess at work._

 

\-- * --

 

He descends the stairs two steps at time, not stopping to put on his coat. It doesn't seem like John has tried to follow him, which stings a bit but he knows he wouldn't filter whatever would come out of his mouth, so it's probably better this way. He had been depressed before, but it wasn't anything like it, he is so angry and so humiliated he wants to disappear.

 

He goes as far as opening the front door, when he hears a whisper behind him. He turns to look over his shoulder. Mrs. Hudson is at the door of her flat, motioning for him to come inside. He closes the front door and goes after her. They enter on 221A and she closes the door behind her. 'Come on dear, to the living room.'

 

Her flat is smaller than 221B. They need to cross the kitchen to get to the living room. Sherlock hears from afar the front door of the building opening and closing. John must have gone looking for him after all. He sits at Mrs. Hudson sofa, practically burying himself in the furniture, since it was way softer than the one upstairs. She brings him a plate of chocolate digestives. He grabs a handful of them and stashes in his mouth.

 

'You two had a little domestic, dear?' she asks as she sits beside him.

 

'Something like that.' he mumbles with his mouth full. She tsks at him for that.

 

'Surely you two will come round it. You just have to sit and talk.'

 

'We are the worst people in the world to sit and talk about important things, Mrs. Hudson.'

 

'Don't I know?' she smiles at him knowingly. The she looks conflicted.

 

'What is it?' he frowns at her.

 

'I should offer you tea, but I think we both deserve something a bit more… hm.' 

 

She gets up and strides to a fake plant next on the mantle. Sherlock watches as she takes out the plastic flowers and puts her hand inside the little vase. It comes out holding a plastic bag, like the ones used for evidence at the Met, containing a vivid green amount of smashed leafs. Sherlock widens his eyes hugely.

 

'You stash weed in your flat?' he asks a bit hysterically. 'Thankfully Lestrade never extended his drugs bust down here.'

 

She dismisses him with a wave of her hand. 'I just put a bit on my tea with other herbal soothers here and then. My hip bothers me like hell otherwise. Want to take a look?'

 

He takes the offered plastic bag, opening it careful to not contaminate the substance. It looks colourful and the smell is strong and vibrant. He takes a small bit and smothers between his fingers. It feels moist. 'Organic grown, and recently cured. This is high quality product.'

 

'Of course. Do you think I put trash on my tea?'

 

'Wouldn't dream of it.' he replies. 

 

'Do you want to smoke it?' she asks gingerly. 'Just this once, of course.'

 

He pursues his lips. Weed is not his drug of choice, but it certainly has a calming effect and never put him in trouble of addiction like cocaine had. 'John would be furious at me.' he answers with unease.

 

'If you don't want it we can have just tea, by all means.' she says gently.

 

He ponders for a minute. 'Ok. Just a small cigarette.'

 

They roll the material into thin cigarettes. Sherlock finds it infinitely amusing that Mrs. Hudson is more dexterous at the activity than him. The strong smell is already impregnating his brain as he work the weed. Sherlock maneuvers two chairs close to the window that opens to the back alley. They sit and light on the cigarettes. The first inhale is appeasing at once. Mrs. Hudson closes her eyes in delight.

 

'Long years since I smoked one. I had forgotten the feeling.' she says.

 

They smile softly at nothing. Sherlock thinks her ceiling is the most interesting thing. The dose makes him feel like just after waking up, the drowsy sensation that you could rest your eyes five more minutes before coming to full awakeness. It's quite comfortable. 'We could play something.'

 

She hums, thoughtful. 'I have a deck, but I usually play bridge. Do you know a game for two players?'

 

He shrugs. 'Double solitaire?'

 

They decide for it without much discussion. Mrs. Hudson is quite good with cards. She wins the first round, and he beats her on the second round. 

 

The effect of the weed is wearing out when she tells him to take a shower if he doesn't want to be smelly when John arrives. 'And Sherlock? Don't hold back. Your fights with John would be reduced by half if you two talked more. Three quarters if you clean the fridge.'

 

He snorts, and envelops her shoulders to smack a kiss on her cheek with a loud "muah!".

 

'You're a saint, Hudders.'

 

\-- * --

It's past lunchtime when John comes back home. He seems surprised to find Sherlock at home. Sherlock himself has been composing since after his shower. The piece he started weeks ago is almost finished now, and he still feels there's something missing out of it. He is standing by the window, holding the violin in his left hand while he writes another chord on his sheet music. John clears his throat and Sherlock looks up at him.

 

'Hey.' John says softly.

 

He delicately puts the violin back on the case, and closes the sheet notebook. He stands there, in the middle of the living room, not knowing what to do. John finally takes pity of him. 'Let's… sit? We need to talk.'

 

He obeys, dreading the moment. He has zero experience with proper break-ups, but he supposes this is gonna be it. He sits on his chair, and to his awe instead of just doing the same, John pushes his own chair forward, so it's quite close to Sherlock. He holds his breath as John finally sits, and their knees are tangled.

 

'Ok. Can we start?'

 

'You're not going to drink?' Sherlock asks cautiously, still marveling John's knee touching his thigh. 'There's still whisky in the cupboard.'

 

'Nope. I don't want to hide behind alcohol this time. I need to move on.'

 

Despite his earlier mental preparation, a cold hook seizes Sherlock's stomach. He swallows, but his mouth is dry. That was quite straightforward. John needs to move on this relationship. He wouldn't be the first.

 

'I love you.'

 

_What?_

 

'I'm aware now that I never said that properly to you. I think I took for granted that you were here. So I'm saying now. I love you.'

 

He feels like he smoked weed again. Everything is very slow. John loves him back. _John loves him back!_. It means he's going to stay, right? He's not leaving like he said. He will not pursue women anymore, and Sherlock will love him everyday and they will kiss all the time, and they will go back to crime scenes together, and Sherlock will play him the song he composed with John in mind and-

 

'Hey, Sherlock? Whatever you're thinking you're not saying it aloud. You're just doing the blinking thing.'

 

'Oh.' he licks his lips. 'I love you too.' he replies softly.

 

'I know.' John smiles at him, then it fades away. 'I'm sorry about this morning.'

 

'John...'

 

'I had an anxiety crisis, you were also stressed, we weren't at our best. But I had no excuse to be condescendent about you, and your… sexual experience.'

 

'Ok, apology accepted, now you can stop that.' he winces.

 

'Right. So let's establish something: you are...' he dry swallows. 'The most important person in the world for me. I'm not leaving.'

 

There's a lump in his throat that he hopes doesn't evolve. 'And I will not lie to you again.' he adds quickly, because he supposes he should. John looks contented to hear, so it's a win.

 

'Cheers. It's all I ask.' he looks impossibly mellow, and Sherlock just wants to bury himself in his arms and never come out. 'Also. Well. I'm terrible at relationships, ok? You're not the reason I got dumped by all my girlfriends, you were just… the vector.'

 

'Your girlfriends were stupid. And dull.' he replies. 'You've been doing fine so far.'

 

'Even last night?' John asks, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed.

 

'John.' Sherlock gives him a look that he hopes expresses his unconcern for the matter. 'You're a fortysomething with erectile dysfunction probably linked to anxiety scenarios and the preconceived notion of ideal male performance formed in your teenage years, it's completely expected that the elements of the vicious cycle combined generate episodes of passive-aggressiveness towards the issue, but honestly yesterday you accepted quite well the change of strategy and accomplished in bringing a very pleasurable experience.'

 

'Oh my god, can you at least breath through it?' John puts a hand over his left breast. 'I'll pretend I didn't hear the first part. I'm glad you enjoyed, tho.'

 

'I could engage more next time.' he says.

 

'Noted.' John replies with a smirk. 'By the way. I don't want end up in a situation where I press anything. So you don't… ever?'

 

He sighs. 'I do. Just not frequently. Also not something I require most of the times. Really John, if you want to do something you just have to ask, and I'll say yes or no.'

 

'Great. That's settled then.' he licks his lips. Sherlock finds it mesmerizing. 'Can I kiss you?'

 

'You must.' he replies a bit breathless already. John puts one knee on Sherlock's chair and slouches to him. They kiss unhurriedly, gleefully, and Sherlock can get high on it. 

 

When John breaks apart, he barely thinks before opening his stupid big mouth. 'I think your jumpers are cute.' he murmurs.

 

John frowns, perplexed. 'You what?'

 

'You heard me.'

 

John opens his mouth but closes it again. He looks all over Sherlock's face. 'Your hair makes me want to play with it every time I look at it.'

 

'By all means do it.'

 

John groans and pulls him to a long snog. They part once again, the blond nosing his way on the side of Sherlock's head.

 

'This is for real, Sherlock. The two of us against the rest of the world. I choose you, only you.'

 

Sherlock tries not to show his trembling hands, so he grips hard the man's shirt. 'John. John.' he murmurs to the doctor's neck, eyes closed.

 

'Why do you do that?' John asks very tenderly.

 

'Do what?'

 

'Say my name like this. I daydream of it sometimes.'

 

Sherlock just shakes his head mutely, and plants kisses down John's collarbone. They stay like that for some moments, when suddenly John pulls away from the chair to stand up, bringing Sherlock with him, however.

 

'Janine said… she owed you a dance.'

 

Why would John bring up Janine _now_? 'Well, I like to dance.' he shrugs.

 

'Care to dance with me? No closed curtains this time.'

 

Sherlock boggles at John, who is beaming expectant at him. 'Certainly yes. What do you want to dance?'

 

His attitude deflates a little. 'Ahn. I only know the waltz you taught me. We could dance to it perhaps?'

 

'No.' Sherlock answers immediately. 'That song was for you and Mary. The Mary from before, obviously.'

 

'Agree with you there, unfortunately.'

 

'I'll just put on another song.'

 

He chooses a modern waltz, with a woman actually singing over it, because he thinks it will be easier for John than a classical piece. The man himself is very attentive to follow his steps, which Sherlock finds quite endearing. He looks directly into Sherlock's eyes the whole time. Sherlock gently makes him spin from side to side, none of them really guiding. John rests his lips under Sherlock's jawline and murmurs 'I choose you.' until Sherlock releases his tight grip on him.

 

They hold each other longer than the song duration. 

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new content is going to kill me before the actual episodes have the opportunity I swear to god.
> 
> The song Sherlock chooses is Dark Waltz, by Hayley Westenra.
> 
> The title of the chapter is actually a translation of a line from the brazilian song Paula e Bebeto, by Milton Nascimento and Caetano Veloso.
> 
> I'll have a short epilogue up probably until friday! See you guys there!
> 
> (and as always, come talk to me on tumblr. User thanks-mike-stamford)
> 
> :)


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a very short epilogue. Warning this is as cheesy as it gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed, not brit-picked, not first language, any mistakes please point them out!

_~ Two months later ~_

John takes the tube back to Baker Street. Ella had said by the end of their appointment that she was very happy with him. He had told her that right now he was feeling better than any moment of his life. It took him about forty years to get it right, but the most important is that he can truly say that everything is fine.

 

Well, not everything if he's being honest. Just last week Sherlock had been trying to replicate some new hypothesis on the effects of pig's insulin on blood patterns caused by knife wounds. It had involved a dead pig in the shower, and John refusing to sleep in the flat while the thing was still there. 

 

Sherlock had also written a critical reply to the new crime harm index developed by Cambridge criminologists that actually got published in a journal. One of the team members of the project is a former Chief Constable of the Met, and he was furious enough to come to 221B yell at Sherlock. John put him in his place.

 

Basically, things were how he supposed they must have been all along.

 

He doesn't update his blog anymore, but he created a forum for them so people could send their cases to be evaluated. Sherlock started to prepare several new monographs to post on his website, by John's encouragement. It turns out the hits received are bigger than ever. John is still trying to convince him to re-upload the tobacco ash analysis.

 

At the Baker Street Station there's a shop selling guava croissants, and he buys two for the ant-detective. Finally at home, he gets the mail. Mrs. Hudson is apparently out. Sherlock had told him two weeks ago that she probably has been meeting someone for casual sex. He had fled the room before he would need to bleach his brain.

 

Sherlock is in the living room, sitting on the floor and working on something at the coffee table. John lowers himself next to him, pushing the paper bag with the croissants to his general direction. He immediately gets one and tries to put it whole inside his mouth. The manners on him, honestly. While he attempts to overfeed, John takes a look at the mess on the table.

 

'Is that… a scrap book?'

 

Sherlock colours slightly, and just grumbles something with his mouth full. The notebook is made with thick and high quality paper. He's making a collage of photos, newspapers pieces and printed emails. There are pens in at least five different colours, post-its in various sizes, and the whole thing looks bloody trendy in John's opinion. He recognises the elephant in the room case from the current page.

 

'You putting our cases together?' he asks getting the picture of the elephant. Now that had been weird.

 

'I thought I could update your casebook.' Sherlock answers sheepishly. John smiles.

 

'That's actually a great idea. I think I have a box with old material in the room upstairs.'

 

'I know, I already got it.'

 

'Of course you did.' John rolls his eyes, turning back to the email. Sherlock had already started the second croissant. He decides not to comment on it. Some bills, another anonymous threatening letter to Sherlock (who just snorts in response), and one envelope from… Hungary?

 

He frowns at the envelope. It has a seal from the prison in Budapest. The addresser is Anna Agnes. He feels more than he sees Sherlock looking over his shoulder and stiffening beside him. He takes a deep breath, gets up and marches to the kitchen. He lights the stove and throws the envelope over it. It burns quite quickly, so in a minute he turns it back off.

 

Sherlock comes into the kitchen and hugs him from behind, crossing his arms over his shoulders. He plants a long kiss on John's nape, which is quite lovely, so he shivers all over. 'I have something to show you.' he murmurs against his neck, and releases him. They return to the living room, where Sherlock motions for him to sit on his chair.

 

The detective gets his violin out of the case, and puts a three-page sheet on the music stand. He looks very shy, but keeps turned to John when he starts to play. It commences quite cheerful and youngish, then descends into an angry quick tune, passing for a slow sad melody. It returns to same melody from the beginning, but slowed down so it sounds like closure. 

 

It then evolves to a midtempo, a rather sensual melody, and Sherlock closes his eyes seemingly spontaneous. John remembers it's the music he's seen him composing months ago, when he was still living with Anna. He actually gets worked up a bit, licking his lips while watching Sherlock in his most suave form, swaying gently to the tune, huge hands holding the instrument lovingly.

 

The song finally enters the last stage, combining elements from the cheerful tune and the sensual one, staying in midtempo and gradually slowing to an end. Sherlock does a little bow, the blush high on his cheeks. John sighs.

 

'It's beautiful. What is it about?'

 

'Well, you'd probably say it's about us.' Sherlock says as he puts the violin aside. 'But I composed with you in mind.'

 

'Oh, Sherlock Holmes.' John purrs. 'Come here, would you?'

 

Sherlock joins him on his chair, kissing with abandon, and finally, _finally_ , John doesn't need to think about anything else.

 

\-- * --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys....... there it is! Obviously it was better in my mind than when I put in words, but the fact that I finished this is an accomplishment per se! Remember that I thought it would be over before setlock? *snorts loudly*. And in two days this will become an AU... Until we have like 5 years before getting new content.
> 
> I want to thank SO MUCH everyone who subscribed, left kudos, who bookmarked, and specially the few ones who took their time to leave a comment. You're amazing!
> 
> I have plans for other fics. There's this AU in my mind for months that I hope I can write soon! After recovering from series 4 trauma perhaps.
> 
> So, good-bye lovelies! Talk to me on tumblr! User thanks-mike-stamford!
> 
> And Happy New Sherlock! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I was considering a name for this fic, and it was raining. My sister said that the water was very cold to which I answered: what did you want, hot rain? The expression gave me sparkles so I googled it and found a song called Hot Rain, by the band Reckless Love. I don't particularly like the song, but the lyrics were so accurate I could only think it was fate.
> 
> You can talk to me on tumblr! Username thanks-mike-stamford 
> 
> Update next Thursday, 14/01/16. Hoping to see you there! :)


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